


Stay Blue

by aghamora



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 03:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5190629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aghamora/pseuds/aghamora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes of a pregnancy, in nine parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> All right here's the multi-chap fic I've been talking about! I’ve decided to take a little break from ficlets, as I’ve been writing a few things in this whole Flaurel pregnancy!verse, and it’s really made me want to expand those drabbles out into a long-ish, more coherent story. Is this an overused trope? Yeah, kinda, but I can't help myself, so here we are. Enjoy.

It’s Saturday.

The late morning sun is shining, spilling warm golden lines across Frank’s sheets and naked back, and illuminating the room. Through the crack of his open window, he can hear a lone bird chirping. His bedroom is peaceful, still. Quiet. 

That is – except for the sound of what he thinks is Laurel puking her guts out in his bathroom.

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he sits up, tugs on a pair of sweatpants, and makes his way into the bathroom too. He finds Laurel hunched over the toilet just as he’d expected, dressed in his loose blue work shirt with her messy hair falling around her shoulders. Slowly, he kneels behind her and sweeps her hair back, holding it away from her face, until her stomach settles and she turns to look back at him with a grateful smile.

“Good morning to you too,” he teases.

“Thanks,” Laurel mutters, as she reaches up to flush the toilet. “Ugh, I told you we shouldn’t have ordered from that new sushi place last night. I knew it looked sketchy.”

He just shrugs, reaching over to hand her a few squares of toilet paper. “We’ll get Mr. Sushi next time.”

“God, this is so gross, I’m sorry.”

“You think I care?” he asks, standing and extending a hand to help her to her feet. “You’re beautiful even blowin’ chunks.”

Laurel scoffs, stands, and goes for her toothbrush immediately – which, yeah, she does have at this place now, and yeah, he really likes that. “Good to know.”

“You hungry? I’ll start breakfast.”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice garbled a bit from the toothbrush into her mouth. “Thanks.”

He pecks her on the cheek and walks out into the kitchen, starting the coffee pot, popping a piece of bread into the toaster, and heating up the frying pan for omelets. This is his favorite part of the day, if he’s being honest: waking up next to Laurel, mornings with Laurel, just being _with_ Laurel. He knows how she takes her coffee, exactly what she wants in her omelet, just how much she likes her toast to be toasted. He knows her – almost better than he knows himself. 

He thinks he could get used to this. Part of Frank thinks he already has.

Laurel appears in the doorway, still clad in his shirt that extends almost down to her knees, just as he scoops her omelet onto her plate and sets it on the table.

She takes a seat, and he places her mug of coffee in front of her. “Feel better?”

“Sort of, I just…” She shakes her head and drifts off. “This smells terrible. I-it just makes me want to puke all over again.”

Frank frowns, turning to look at her from where he stands at the stove. “For real?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m sure it’s fine. Everything just smells so… weird,” she mutters, resting her chin on her hand. “Do you have any saltines, or something?”

Bewildered, he nods and reaches into one of the cupboards, withdrawing a sleeve of saltines and handing them to her.

Laurel gives him a half-hearted little grin. “Thanks. Sorry, I know you did all this for me, and-”

“Don’t worry about it,” he cuts her off gently, taking a seat across the table. “Just feel better, okay?”

 

\--

 

But she doesn’t, and after a few days, Frank starts to suspect that something is seriously up with her.

She stops getting sick for the most part, but hardly ever seems to want to eat the food he cooks her, and brushes him off when he asks why. She’s touchy, too, and he has to all but tiptoe around her, lest he risk incurring her wrath by breathing the wrong way. She complains about being tired, and won’t let him touch her breasts in bed either, complaining that he’s being too rough – which is _really_ weird, because normally she’s all for that.

He’s not stupid. He knows her, and he knows her body – and so that’s what makes him stop at a convenience store near his apartment at the end of the week on Friday, and pick up half a dozen pregnancy tests.

It’s possible he’s just being paranoid, but he thinks by now that his suspicions are justified. So he brings them back to his apartment, changes out of his work clothes, and waits for Laurel, who’d promised to come over after her Civpro study group.

It’s possible he’s just being paranoid. Probably he is. Laurel can’t be pregnant. She’s on the pill – and although they hardly ever use condoms anymore, it’s still supposed to be, like, ninety percent effective, right? That’s pretty effective. Mostly effective. Almost _totally_ effective.

Three short, sudden raps on Frank’s door draw him out of his thoughts, and he pops up from the couch, walking over to the door and pulling it open to find Laurel there. She steps inside with a smile, shrugging off her coat and dropping it onto the back of one of his living room chairs.

“Hey,” she greets. “Sorry my study group took so long. You, uh, have anything to drink?”

Frank hesitates. “Yeah. Don’t know if that’s a good idea, though.”

“What?” Laurel blinks, turning to look at him. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

He presses his lips into a line. “Look… we need to talk.”

She narrows her eyes suspiciously.

“…Why?”

Again, he hesitates, not knowing quite how to put this. _I think you’re pregnant_? _And somehow I figured it out and you haven’t_? Finally, Frank just strides over to the counter, grabs one of the boxes out of the grocery bag, and holds it out to her without saying a word. Laurel reaches out to take it warily, like it’s a bomb that might go off at any moment, and scowls when she reads the label.

“Frank… what is-”

“That’s why we need to talk.”

“I don’t…” Laurel shakes her head. “I-I don’t understand. Why’d you get me this?”

“Because I think you’re pregnant,” he tells her, straight-faced, not missing a beat.

A tentative smile creeps onto her lips, almost like she thinks this is all some kind of joke, and she shakes her head again, setting the box down onto the counter and going for his bar across the room.

“I am not _pregnant_ ,” Laurel scoffs, so nonchalantly that it catches him off guard. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” he presses, following her. “Everything but saltines makes you queasy. You’ve been yellin’ at me all week, and you keep saying how tired you are, and how your… boobs are sore, and-”

“Which means I’m probably just stressed!” She forces a laugh, reaching out to pour herself a small glass of scotch. “And besides, don’t you think I would _know_ if I was pregnant?”

“You don’t seem to. And I think you might be.”

Laurel rolls her eyes, and starts to raise the glass to her lips. “Well, you’re wrong. And I didn’t come here to fight with you tonight, so can we just have a drink and-”

Frank snatches the drink out of her hand right before she can take a sip, however, and she glowers at him.

“Hey!”

“You’re not drinking that.”

Her cheeks flush red with anger, her nostrils flaring all at once. “I don’t know where you got the idea that I’m pregnant, but I’m not. So just… drop it!”

“Fine. I’ll drop it,” he concedes. “Just take the test, and if it’s negative I’ll let it go, all right?”

Laurel clenches her jaw, but her eyes have a glint of contemplation in them, and after a moment, she plods reluctantly over to the counter where she’d tossed the test. She grabs it and heads in the direction of the bathroom that adjoins to his bedroom, but not before stopping in front of him and raising her chin.

“Fine,” she exhales sharply. “I’ll take it, but just to prove to you that you’re wrong.”

With that, Laurel spins around and disappears into the bedroom, Frank hot on her heels. Sending one last glare his way, she strides into the bathroom and closes the door behind her, while Frank takes a seat on the bed to wait. A few minutes later Laurel reemerges, holding the little white stick in her hands and looking almost deflated, like a balloon someone has let the air out of.  

“It’s, uh, supposed to take another minute,” she tells him, plopping down at his side and shaking the test. “This is dumb. I don’t know why you’re…”

Abruptly, she drifts off, her mouth snapping shut. Her eyes go wide with horror, and just as Frank is about to look over and ask what it says, Laurel springs to her feet out of nowhere, drops the test on the bed, and goes sprinting into the next room without a word.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, Frank grabs the discarded test and holds it up – and he can’t say he’s all that surprised when he sees the tiny little plus sign staring back at him.

There sure as hell is no doubt as to what that means, and he tosses it into the trashcan with a frown, taking a step toward the door just in time for Laurel to come rushing back in holding the bag with the rest of the tests.

“That one has to be wrong.” The words come out of her mouth in a panicked burst, as she reaches for the bathroom doorknob. “I’m taking the rest.”

“Laurel-”

She shuts the door in his face before he can finish that sentence. Frank pauses, considering stepping inside with her before deciding that she probably should just be alone. So he walks back over to the bed to sit once more, and waits – although he doesn’t know what good taking the rest will do, because he’s sure Laurel has realized by now that nothing’s going to change.

And nothing does. Fifteen minutes later, Laurel is standing in front of him again, this time with a fistful of pregnancy tests all bearing same grim conclusion. A plus sign. Two lines. Positive. Two lines again.   _Pregnant._

Looking almost like she might cry, Laurel sinks down beside him again. “They can’t all be wrong, can they?”

Frank doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say, and Laurel lets out a shaky breath, setting them aside on the nightstand.

“How did you know?” she asks, bewildered. “ _I_ didn’t even know.”

“I notice things,” he answers, lowly. “I knew somethin’ was up.”

They lapse into a silence that feels like the heaviest in the world, neither one of them sure what to say. And sure, Frank seems outwardly calm, but on the inside he’s really freaking the fuck out. Laurel’s pregnant, and it’s for real. And it’s his. And it’s not like this had been in the cards for them, like… at all. Ever. But he’s not too dumb to realize that if he’s freaking out, then Laurel must be ten times as scared, and so stops that train of thought and glances over at her, eyes full of tenderness.

“So what now?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he kind of regrets them. It had sounded blunt, almost rude, but that’s all he knows to ask. _What now_?

The question only seems to make her more distraught. “I don’t… I – this…”

“I’ll do whatever you wanna do, okay?” he tries to soothe her. “No questions or anything.”

Just silence, again. Then, finally, Laurel purses her lips, keeping her eyes lowered. “You’re just gonna be mad, if I tell you.”

“I won’t,” Frank says. He lowers his voice, and sinks down onto his knees in front of where she sits, taking one of her hands in his. “I promise.”

She hesitates, before murmuring, “I don’t want an abortion, all right? I don’t. It’s… ours, and it’s not like that doesn’t mean anything to me. And I know maybe that’s what you’d want, because it would be easier, but I can’t _do_ that, I-”

“Then you don’t have to. We’ll figure it out.”

Her eyes flicker with confusion, and she sniffles. “What, you don’t want a say in this?”

“Huh?”

“You’re just going to… go along with whatever I want?” Frank opens his mouth to answer, but Laurel stands before he can and pulls away. “Because you don’t have to, Frank, if you don’t want any part in this, or-”

He reaches out, catching her arm to stop her. “Hey. Why do you think I wouldn’t?”

“Because I…” Her voice breaks, her lower lip trembling. “I don’t know.”

“Look,” he says, urging her close, “if we’re doin’ this, for real, and having this kid, then I’m gonna be there for you. I’m not some punk who runs away from his responsibilities.”

“Is that what this is to you?” Laurel asks softly. “A responsibility? A… burden?”

“Laurel-”

He reaches out again, but she steps away, looking up at him with glassy eyes. “This just… this isn’t what I _wanted_ , okay? This is exactly what you said I’d be, and I didn’t want that.”

“What I said you’d be? What’re you talking abou-”

“The first time we met,” she cuts him off. “When you told me all girls like me just end up pregnant and quitting their jobs a-and staying home with the baby.”

Frank freezes. The words hit him like a kick in the gut, and all of a sudden he feels like the worst piece of shit in the world – which he probably is, if he’s being honest. Laurel looks so hurt, so wounded by the memory of his words, that it kills him.

“And I don’t want an abortion, but I don’t want to be that girl,” she hisses, drawing in on herself like a turtle into its shell. “You were right about me, I guess.”

Frank walks toward her, grabbing her gently and pulling her close. “No, I wasn’t. I was being an asshole. If you wanna have this baby, we’ll figure it out. You won’t be that girl-”

“But what about school, and a summer internship, and-”

“We’ll figure it out,” he asserts. “I’m gonna do whatever it takes to make this work, all right?”

“How?”

Not honestly having an answer for that one, he just shrugs. “Make it up as we go along, probably. But it’ll work. I’ll make it work.”

Laurel looks about ready to protest again, but instead just closes her mouth, thinks for a moment, and wraps her arms around him instead, nestling her face into his chest, seeking comfort like she almost never does.

“How are you not scared?” she asks after a moment, her voice muffled by his sweater.  

“Who says I’m not scared?”

Laurel pulls back to look at him, confused. “You don’t seem like it.”

“I’m a good faker.”

“So… we’re doing this,” she breathes, after a moment. “Actually doing this.”

Frank shrugs. “If you’re still in, I’m in.”

“Yeah, well,” Laurel scoffs, before burrowing her head into his shoulder again. “You better be.”

“I am. All the way,” he reaffirms, and presses a soft kiss to her hair. “You know I am.”


	2. II

Eight weeks.

That’s how far along she is – eight weeks, give or take a bit. The doctor Frank takes her to confirms it, gives her a rough due date of mid-November and a bunch of pamphlets and prenatal vitamins, and not a whole ton of guidance beyond that.

Eight weeks.

That leaves them with only seven months, to figure out _everything_. Seven months for her to come to terms with the idea that there’s a baby inside her, a tiny little person now taking up residence in her uterus; hers and Frank’s, and that’s it real. That it really _exists_ , because honestly, sometimes she’s still not entirely convinced yet that this is reality and not some crazy fucked-up alternate dimension.

Seven months to figure out a nursery and clothes and whatever else a baby needs – which, according to the internet, is about a five-page list. Seven months to figure out their living situation, and who’s moving in with who, and search for a two bedroom apartment, “because we need a nursery, Frank, we’re not putting the crib in our bedroom.”

Seven months to figure out who to tell, and not tell. And predictably, the list for the latter is much, much longer.

Not Annalise, or Bonnie, or anyone else in the office, at least not until she’s done working with them for the year, because having them _know_ , and look at her like she’s _that_ girl… She couldn’t stand that. She can hide it for a few more months, easily – or, at least, it seems easy in theory.

Quickly, she finds out that it isn’t. Not at all.

They’re in court one afternoon a few weeks later, listening to the testimony of one of the prosecution’s expert witnesses; a coroner, who is being _way_ more descriptive than Laurel’s stomach can handle at the moment. Normally she would just munch on saltines to settle her stomach until the nausea went away – but she has no saltines here. Then, as if on a mission just to make her puke, he starts showing autopsy photos. Really bloody, graphic, gory autopsy photos.

And _that_ is when Laurel finally leans forward, bows her head, and hurls all over her shoes.

Asher, who is on her left, scoots away with an exclamation of “Aw, gross!” That draws the attention of the rest of the team, and the testimony grinds to a halt up front, every eye in the courtroom flying to her. Humiliated and apologizing profusely, she stands and makes her way out of the room, into the lobby, and then the women’s restroom, where she locks herself in one of the stalls, trying to convince herself, somehow, that that did _not_ just happen in front of everyone.

Oh, God. She’s never going to live that down.

Even though she doesn’t have to puke anymore, Laurel closes the toilet seat, sits down, and stays like that for a good ten minutes, wallowing in her own self-pity and trying to clean the vomit off her shoes as best she can, until she hears footsteps on the other side of the stall door. A pair of shoes that obviously don’t belong to a woman stop directly in front of it.

“Laurel? You in here?”

Frank.

She sighs, resting her chin on her hand and muttering despondently, “Yeah.”

“Can I come in?”

Laurel doesn’t answer. She just reaches out, unlatches the stall door, and pushes it open without getting up. Frank steps inside and closes it behind him, turning to look at her.

“You good?”

“Aside from the fact I just threw up in front of a hundred people and everyone else at the office?” she sighs. “I feel just dandy.”

“I’ll tell ‘em you have the stomach flu. They’ll get over it. Here.”

Frank reaches into his pocket, withdrawing a small pack of spearmint gum.

She furrows her brow. “You carry gum with you?”

“Got it from the vending machine in the lobby. Figured you wouldn’t want your mouth tasting like puke for the rest of the day.”

It’s a small gesture, but it’s thoughtful, and Laurel smiles weakly, popping a piece into her mouth. “Thanks.”

She chews thoughtfully for a moment and then sighs again. Frank notices, and gets down his knees in front of her.

“What’s wrong?”

Laurel takes a breath, hesitating a moment, before finally meeting his eyes. “What if this is all a mistake? Just… a huge mistake?”

“There’s still time,” he tells her, grimly. “If you wanna change your mind.”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t want to do that. At the doctor’s the other day, when she was telling us how the baby already has a heartbeat and everything…”

Laurel drifts off, knowing what she wants to say but not able to put it into words. Frank grins.

“It’s cool, huh? He’s already growin’ away in there.”

She blinks. “He?”

“Yeah. I got a feeling.”

She gives a soft little laugh, relaxing. “Well, who says it’s not a girl?”

“We’ll agree to disagree on that,” he concedes, getting to his feet. “Now c’mon. Let’s get back out there before Annalise starts wondering where we are.”

Laurel nods and stands too, while Frank reaches for the door and unlatches it.

He pulls it open – and the moment he does, they find themselves face to face with none other than Annalise Keating herself, staring them down with her chin raised.

Laurel’s stomach drops. She can’t…? She can’t be here; they hadn’t even heard her come in – and oh God, judging by the knowing look in her eyes, she’s heard. _Everything._

Frank glances back at her with similar terror in his eyes, and appears to be just about to open his mouth when Annalise holds up a hand to stop him before he can even start.  

“No need to rush back out there now,” she deadpans. “I’m not wondering where you two are anymore.”

Frank closes his mouth, cowering like a little kid before her. Laurel would laugh at the sight if she weren’t about to lose her lunch all over again.

“Annalise, let-”

“The judge called a recess. We’re going back to the office,” she cuts him off. “I came to get Miss Castillo here, but it seems you’ve already taken care of that.”

Laurel just looks at her, mouth agape and trying to form words, eyes watering with embarrassment. Annalise pauses, taking a long look at the two of them, before stepping away from the stall and heading for the door.

“My office when we get back,” Annalise calls behind her. “Both of you.”

 

\--

 

“Well, Frank, you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

They’re standing in front of Annalise’s desk, side by side, like two schoolkids called into the principal’s office to be yelled at. And Annalise hasn’t started yelling yet, but Laurel’s pretty sure it’s inevitable, especially considering the way she’s glaring daggers at the two of them, disapproval written all over her face.

“Annalise-” Frank tries to protest again, though it sounds half-assed, like he already knows it’s not going to do much good.

“I had my suspicions about you two,” she says, voice low and measured. “I chose to look past it. To be honest, whether or not you two are screwing doesn’t make a difference to me. I couldn’t care less.”

Laurel frowns, glancing sideways at Frank and finding him looking back, equally as perplexed.

“Then why did you-” Frank starts.

Again, she cuts him off, raising her voice. “But I’m sure you two understand why I can’t have my employees knocking up my students. This is still a place of work, though everyone here seems to have gotten way too familiar with each other.”

“It’s…” Frank drifts off. “It’s not like that.”

Annalise raises an eyebrow. “Really? Then what is it like? What I overheard seemed pretty clear.”

“Look,” Laurel pipes up, looking her square in the eyes, “if you want to fire me, fire me.”

“No way,” Frank breaks in all at once. “If you’re firing someone, it’s me-”

“I’m not firing anyone,” she says, calmly. “I don’t like this situation, but I can’t do anything about it either. You two want to keep this quiet, I assume?”

Shocked, they exchange another look, then nod silently.

Apparently having gotten all she needs, Annalise takes a seat, waving them away dismissively. “I think that’s probably best, at least until Miss Castillo’s done working here for the year. You can go.”

Head still spinning, Laurel makes her way over to the door, with Frank following close behind, as eager to escape as she is. He stops in his tracks, however, when Annalise calls after him.

“Not you, Frank. You stay.”

Laurel hesitates, turning back to look at him and shooting him another worried look. Frank just nods toward the door, gesturing wordlessly for her to go, and after a moment of hesitation she does, pulling open the office door and stepping out.

And – of fucking course – as soon as she does, she all but falls on top of Connor, Michaela, Wes, and Asher, all gathered by the door in a huddle with scandalized looks on their faces. She doesn’t have to ask to know that they’ve overheard, too – why break the streak of shitty luck she’s had so far today, anyway?

The four of them just stare at her dumbly for a moment, before scattering like spooked rats back into the living room, grabbing case files and pretending to bury themselves in them. Already five hundred percent done with their bullshit today, Laurel just rolls her eyes and follows, taking a seat in one of the armchairs and staring them down.

“Uh, we weren’t,” Asher finally breaks the silence, prompting the rest of them to look up from their case files. “We weren’t _listening,_ or anything. Ha. _No way_.”

Connor and Michaela both shoot him looks of half-annoyance, half-disbelief. Wes just nestles himself further into the corner of the couch, as if trying to disappear – which is what Laurel would really like to do herself right now, honestly.

Incensed, she exhales sharply. “Yes, you were. So. Let’s just… address the elephant in the room. Get it all out on the table.”

No one does. No one speaks up at all. Connor comes the closest: opening his mouth, then thinking better of it and promptly closing it. Asher and Wes avert their eyes. Michaela gives her a look that, on anyone else, almost might be something akin to sympathy.

Not having any of it, Laurel just keeps staring at them. “I know you have questions. Go ahead. Fire away.”

“Is it true?” Michaela finally asks. “You’re…”

“Pregnant?” Laurel supplies. “Yes.”

Connor leans in. “By Frank?”

Laurel holds his gaze, unflinching. “Yes.”

“And you’re… keeping it?” Wes inquires, timidly.

“Yeah. We are. So, any more, or can we get to work now?”

“Holy hell,” Connor lets out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. “Well. I can’t say I ever saw this coming. How’s it feel to be carrying around Frank’s little bearded spawn, by the way?”

Laurel opens her mouth to reply, but Asher beats her to it. “Dude. What if the kid comes out with a beard? Like, a full beard.”

She shudders. _That_ is a terrifying mental image.

“Lay off, all right?” Michaela, of all people, snaps. “It’s a woman’s right to choose what she does with her body. _I_ think it’s brave.”

Laurel flashes Michaela a little smile. She’d expected the other girl to pounce all over her, too – but there’s just understanding in her eyes, no judgement. It’s surprisingly comforting.

“So what?” Connor asks. “You two getting married now? Should we start calling you Mrs. Delfino?”

She scoffs. “No. We’re not, for your information.”

“If you ever need anything,” Wes tells her earnestly, “I can help. Seriously.”

“Like a babysitter?” Asher asks. “Man, I’d be the most baller babysitter _ever_.”

“Yeah, sure,” Michaela snorts. “You’d lose the kid within the first two minutes. _Or_ drop it on its head like I’m sure you were dropped.”

Laurel laughs softly at that. This… she hadn’t been expecting this from them – ridicule, slut-shaming, maybe, but not actual _support._

The sound of Annalise’s office door creaking open, however, silences their laughter immediately. Laurel looks back, and finds Frank stepping out, stalking towards the group with fierce determination.

“Hey,” he cuts in, a cold, menacing look in his eyes. “You idiots got anything to say to her, you can say it to me too.”

“Geez,” Connor remarks. “Call off your attack-dog, will ya?”

Laurel looks up at Frank and shakes her head. “It’s fine, Frank.”

“Oh.” Caught off guard by that, Frank blinks, relaxing his stance somewhat. “Then just… Get back to work. All of you.”

“Hey yo, Frankie D,” Asher calls out. “You should totally name your kid after me.”

“Fat chance,” Frank scoffs, the same moment as Laurel shrugs and murmurs, “Maybe.”

Frank frowns at her. “Huh?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I… kind of like the name Asher.”

He just stares at her, a look of barely-concealed disgust on his face, before shaking it off, catching her gaze, and nodding toward the next room. Laurel gets to her feet and follows him into the kitchen, where they come to a stop near the coffee pot.

“What’d Annalise say?” she asks, as soon as she’s sure they’re alone.  

“Pretty much told me not to screw you over. Said she wanted to be sure I was serious about this whole having a baby thing so I wouldn’t end up hurting you.”

Laurel frowns. “And you said you were, right?”

“’Course,” he lowers his voice. “I already told you I am. Plus, if I was gonna head for the hills, I would’ve done it already.”

She scoffs. “That’s comforting.”

“The rest of the rat pack find out too?”

“Yeah,” Laurel says. “But they were weirdly cool about it.”

A moment passes in comfortable silence. Then, Frank furrows his brow and leans in closer, a look of genuine concern on his face.

“You weren’t serious about naming our kid after Doucheface, were you?”

“Do you honestly think I would want to call our baby _Asher_?”

Frank shrugs. “Dunno. With all these baby hormones goin’ to your head…”

Laurel tries to scowl, but can’t hold back a laugh before it escapes her.

“Yeah, well, the next time these baby hormones ‘go to my head,’ I’m going to remember you said that and be really mad at you.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he murmurs, placing his hands on her hips to draw her into him. “How you feeling? Really?”

She sighs, allowing herself to melt against him. “Good. Not as queasy anymore. And…”

“And what?”

“Happy, for once, I think,” she remarks. “The idea of having a baby, it’s… Kind of been growing on me lately.”

“Yeah,” he undertones. “Me too.”

Frank pecks her lightly on the lips, then wraps his arms around her and holds her close – and she feels right then, out of nowhere, just a tiny bit less afraid of the future, for the first time in forever.

It’s not much, she’ll admit. But… it’s something. It feels like something.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention before that this fic can be read as being in the same universe as [this ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5122628) and [this ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4930585). Just in case you were wanting something to fill in a couple gaps.

“Laurel Castillo? We’re ready for you.”

Laurel perks up at the sound of her name, tearing her eyes from the magazine in her lap and glancing around the waiting room, until she finds a smiling nurse near the door.

It’s her third doctor’s appointment in as many months. She’s always hated doctor’s offices; she doesn’t know why, really, but they’re too sanitary, and white, and always smell like… Well, she doesn’t know right now, exactly. Her sense of smell has been all out of whack lately, but they still make her nervous, and it doesn’t help that today is her first ultrasound. And though she’s really looking forward to that, she can’t help but be weirdly anxious about it, too.

That nervousness vanishes, however, when she feels a large hand reach over and give hers a reassuring squeeze.

She glances sideways at the chair next to her, and finds Frank looking back. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” she answers, smiling back and getting to her feet. “Let’s do this.”

The fabric of her blouse stretches tight across the increasingly noticeable swell of her belly as she heads towards the door. She’s going to need actual maternity clothes, soon; a fact she’s not going to be able to avoid for very much longer. They’re going to need _everything_ soon, in a five months, a date that creeps closer and closer by the hour. Sometimes it’s so overwhelming she feels like she can hardly breathe.

But then there’s always Frank; Frank, reassuring her, telling her it’ll all be all right, that they’ll figure it out – and they have, so far. There’s always Frank, with her, hovering over her like a veritable bodyguard, and she doesn’t know how she’d considered the idea of him not wanting to be involved for even a second.

The nurse leads them to one of the rooms in the back; dimly lit, with ultrasound equipment and colorful informational posters about pregnancy plastered across the walls. She asks them a few questions herself before sending in the technician: a smiling middle-aged woman, who takes a seat, shakes Laurel’s hand, then turns to look at Frank.

“And this is?” she asks.

Laurel hesitates, not knowing exactly how to answer that. Her boyfriend? They’re technically official now, since pretty much everyone knows she’s pregnant and they’re living together, but she’s never actually called him her… _boyfriend_ out loud, before.

Luckily, Frank jumps in, not missing a beat. “Frank. The baby daddy.”

At that, Laurel rolls her eyes, as the technician reaches over and peels up her shirt. “Please don’t call yourself that ever again.”

“Well,” the woman laughs. “Nice to meet you, Frank. Now, you two wanted the 3D ultrasound, right?”

They nod. She reaches for a pair of plastic gloves and pulls them on, then rummages around until she finds what she’s looking for: a bottle of gel.

“And you said you’re sixteen weeks, about?”

“Yeah,” Laurel answers, staring down at her stomach. “About.”

“Then let’s not waste any more time. This’ll feel a bit cold for a second.”

She flinches when the freezing-cold gel hits her stomach, but relaxes after a moment, lying back against the bed as the technician reaches for the transducer and guides it across her stomach, searching for something.

At first there’s just silence as they wait, eyes locked on the screen. Then, like a drumbeat, it starts: a steady _thump, thump, thump_ playing over the speakers, filling the room.

A heartbeat. Clear. Healthy. _Strong_.

A lump forms in Laurel’s throat – and she’s about to look over at Frank and say something when, all at once, the image appears, too.

At first, she has no idea what she’s seeing. There’s no color, just a faint orange-ish hue, and it takes her a moment to discern the shape of the baby there, nestled in what looks like the fetal position, with its legs curled up and its arms near its head. It’s easy to see, after she looks at it for a while. So clear that it’s almost scary.

“All right,” the technician’s voice drifts back into her consciousness. “And there’s your baby.”

A head. Arms. Two legs. Maybe even tiny little fingers. Somehow, before today, the baby hadn’t felt real; she’d known it was there inside her, yeah, but it had just seemed like an idea, an imaginary thing, and it’s real, now. Terrifying, amazingly, blessedly _real_.

She’s afraid, of course. Downright petrified – but as she stares at the screen with love welling up inside her, taking in each detail and committing them to memory, the fear feels far away and distant, barely even there.

She doesn’t even remember Frank is there until he reaches over without a word and takes her hand in both of his, pressing a kiss to the back of it and holding it to his lips. She turns her head to look at him with tears in her eyes, melting back against the bed as the baby’s heartbeat pounds, over and over, never ceasing.

“Oh my God,” is all she can breathe, all she’s capable of saying. “Oh my God, Frank, _look_.”

He is looking. Of course he is. She’s never seen Frank stare at something so intently before, like his life depends on seeing it. And she’s never seen him look like… _this_ before, either, with eyes that are two big blue pools of tenderness.

A watery laugh escapes her. “Look at its little hands. Look at it, look.”

“I am,” he chuckles, and kisses her hand again. “Kinda looks like an alien, y’know.”

Laurel tries to glare at him, but fails, and just ends up laughing again with a sniffle. “Don’t say that!”

“You know I’m just messin’ with you,” he teases, then lowers his voice, growing serious all at once. “That’s… our kid, huh?”

“Yeah,” she chokes out, heart full to bursting. “Yeah.”

They stare at the screen for a while longer, mesmerized, until Frank snaps out of it and moves back slightly to look at the technician.

“So what? The baby just floats around in there like that?” he asks, oh-so-eloquently. “There’s not that much room.”

Laurel gapes at him, while the older woman laughs, amused. “Technically… yes, the baby does float in the amniotic fluid. But the uterus will expand as the baby grows. There’ll be more than enough room, I promise.”

Frank notices Laurel staring at him right then, and shrugs. “What? It was a real question.”

“So,” the technician cuts in, glancing back at them. “Would you like to know the sex?”

“Oh, no, thanks,” Laurel tells her, at the exact same time that Frank says, “Yeah, sure.”

Immediately, Laurel freezes, and Frank looks over at her. “What do you mean you don’t wanna know?”

“I mean I don’t wanna know,” she retorts. “I want it to be a surprise. It’s no fun if we know.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like surprises. So just tell me. You can cover your ears.”

“No way,” Laurel protests. “If you know, you’re not going to be able to stop yourself from telling me too.”

“How about this?” the woman suggests. “I’ll give you an envelope with the gender in it. You two can open it later if you decide you do want to know.”

Frank looks reluctant, but another glare from Laurel is all it takes to get him to acquiesce. “Fine. That works too.”

After receiving the envelope and a printout of the ultrasound, they depart, climbing into Frank’s car to head back to the apartment. Laurel holds the picture in her lap as they drive, staring at it intently, and every so often she catches Frank glancing over at it from the driver’s seat too, with that same sappy, tender look in his eyes.

“Cut it out,” she finally reprimands him after the tenth time, laughing softly. “Keep your eyes on the road.”

He smirks. “Sorry. I just can’t stop looking at it.”

“Yeah,” Laurel murmurs, placing a hand on her stomach and holding the photo up with a proud little smile. “Me either.”

 

\--

 

Unsurprisingly, the envelope becomes a point of contention quickly.

Laurel stashes it in one of the kitchen drawers, assuming that if it’s out of Frank’s sight, it’ll also be out of his mind – but she should know better than to think it’ll be that simple. He brings it up while out shopping for cribs on Sunday, and then again after work on Monday, going on and on about it until Laurel is pretty sure it _isn’t_ just her hormones making her want to murder him.

“For the last time, we’re not opening the envelope!” she hisses, storming towards the sink with a plate in hand as she helps him clear the dinner dishes. “How many times do I have to tell you that before you let it go?”

“I just think we should know, okay?” he shoots back. “Yeah, I get that you want it to be a surprise – but this is a big deal, Laurel. And besides, we need to know what color stuff to buy, and what we’re painting the nursery and-”

“One? We can’t even paint the nursery! The landlord doesn’t allow painting,” she spits, her hormone-amplified temper rearing its ugly head. “And two? What, are we adhering to gender stereotypes now? What if it’s a boy and he loves pink, or a girl and she loves blue-”

“That’s not what I meant,” he tries to soothe her, holding out a hand as if it’ll somehow magically make her stop yelling. “Just… can you calm down? I don’t think stress is good for the baby-”

“It’s _not_!” she exclaims, before pausing and taking a deep breath to center herself. “Stress isn’t good for the baby, and you whining about this envelope is stressing me out, so _stop_. It’s in that drawer and it’s staying there.”

“All right,” he concedes. “Fine. I won’t mention it again. Promise.”

Rolling her eyes, Laurel gives up on clearing the table and makes her way over to the couch, grabbing a stack of pamphlets she’d taken from the doctor’s office and curling up underneath a blanket. She selects one about breastfeeding – a topic that, admittedly, really freaks her the hell out – and settles in to read, listening as Frank washes the dishes and puts them back in the cupboards.

Then, out of nowhere, the other side of the room goes strangely silent for a moment. Like, _really_ strangely silent. Sensing something is amiss, Laurel glances up, just in time to see Frank sneak not-very-stealthily over to the drawer containing the envelope, open it slowly, and pull said envelope out.

She springs to her feet and storms over immediately. “What’re you doing? A-are you trying to open it?”

Frank freezes, thinks for a moment, then feigns confusion – even though he’s very obviously holding the envelope right there _in his hand_.

“Oh, is this the drawer the envelope’s in? I was just lookin’ for the scissors.”

Laurel exhales, then calmly holds out her hand. “Give me the envelope.”

“But-”

“ _Give me the envelope_ , Frank.”

Frank frowns, but obeys and hands it over, knowing there’s no point in arguing with her. Satisfied, Laurel takes it, then strides over to one of the cupboards, opens it, and reaches onto the shelf where she knows he keeps his lighter. Frank watches, bewildered, until he sees her withdraw it – and only then does he realize what she’s doing.

“Woah, hey, what’re you-”

Laurel doesn’t answer. She simply stands over the sink, holds out the envelope, and flicks on the lighter, letting the flames eat at the paper for a few seconds before dropping the charred remains in the sink with a look of triumph.

“There,” she turns and tells him, straight-faced. “And that’s the end of that.”

Frank just looks at her. “That really necessary?”

“Yes, because you’re like a four year-old with no self-control. We’ll find out the gender in five months. It’ll be a nice surprise, and we’re done talking about this.”

She turns to walk away, but he calls out to stop her.

“Lau-”

Laurel spins around. “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She leaves him with that, disappearing into the bedroom to get ready for bed. Frank ambles in and out of the bathroom a few times, doing the same and looking a lot like a kicked puppy, until he finally settles down outside on the couch for the night, resigned to his fate. After changing into sweatpants and one of his baggy t-shirts, she lies down to sleep too, but the anger wears off quickly, and she just starts feeling bad.

The bed is too big and empty and cold without him in it. It feels… wrong. She misses him.

So she gets to her feet, wraps herself in a blanket, and makes her way out into the pitch-black living room, illuminated only faintly by moonlight from the window. She finds Frank asleep on his cold leather couch, underneath a blanket too short for him with his head resting at what looks like an uncomfortable angle. Gently, she creeps onto the couch as well and snuggles herself in at his side, making do as best she can with the limited amount of space.

He stirs, and looks down at her when she rests her head on his chest. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she mutters. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have told you to sleep on the couch.”

He shifts over to give Laurel more room, curling an arm around her. “Nah. You were right, about before.”

“No, I wasn’t. I shouldn’t have even gotten mad in the first place. You were just excited.”

“Sill am,” he tells her. “And I know I said I don’t like surprises, but I’ll like this one. Though for the record, _I_ still think it’s a boy.”

She yawns. “He’ll look like you, if it is.”

“Huh?”

“If it’s a boy,” she murmurs sleepily. “He’ll be an adorable mini-you – sans the beard, of course.”

Frank chuckles. “Yeah, well, we better hope the beard gene gets passed along.”

They share a laugh at that, and he looks down at her after they sober up, rubbing one hand idly up and down the length of her arm.

“And if it’s a girl? You have any idea how much she’ll look like you?” He grins at the thought. “Big blue eyes and your hair and face and everything. She’ll be the cutest kid in the _world_. I’ll be totally wrapped around her little finger.”

Laurel hums sleepily. “Mmm. I like that idea.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence. Frank tightens his hold on her for a moment, squeezing her gently. “Wanna go to bed?”

“No,” she whispers, her eyes closing as the waves of sleep wash over her. “M too comfortable. Don’t wanna move.”

Laurel doesn’t know where it comes from, or why she says it – but after a few more minutes pass like that, in the silence and in his arms, she gazes up at Frank, gives him a lazy little smile with her eyelids drooping, and mutters:

“I love you, you know.”

The words come out so naturally that she doesn’t even think before saying them. They slip off her tongue almost out of nowhere. She doesn’t know what kind of reaction she’s expecting; shock, maybe, but there’s no look of shock in Frank’s eyes. There’s hardly even any surprise at all, and after a moment, he just grins back at her, planting a kiss on her forehead.

“Love you too,” he tells her, and reaches down to rest a hand on her swelling belly. “Both of you.”

They say ‘I love you’ like it’s nothing out of the ordinary, like they’ve been saying it to each other all along. It feels like they have, somehow.

As Laurel drifts off in his arms, she thinks in the back of her mind, for a moment, that maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be.


	4. IV

“Hey. Bro, where’d my bags of potato chips go?”

“Who cares?”

“ _I_ care. All right; the jig’s up. Who jacked my freaking chips?”

Frank hears Connor scoff in the next room.

“Our client is on death row about to be executed tomorrow morning, and you’re worried about your missing junk food?”

“Look, Pratt, if it was you I swear I’m gonna-”

Michaela’s voice is the one he hears next. “Don’t look at me. Look at preggers over there.”

Frank appears in the doorway just in time to take in the sight of the five of them, gathered in a circle in the living room with case files in their laps. Everyone is staring at Laurel, who has a very obvious guilty expression on her face, like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar – or bag of potato chips, for that matter.

“Sorry, okay?” she finally says with a sigh. “I’ve been really craving salty stuff lately.”

Asher gapes at her. “But I had, like, two whole bags stashed under my chair. You polished them _both_ off?”

Laurel shrugs. “I… got kind of hungry earlier.”

“Watch it,” Michaela chimes in. “You don’t want to pull a Jessica Simpson over there and gain five hundred pounds while you’re pregnant.”

Asher frowns. “Aw, man, I was really looking forward to-”

“Quit your whining and let it go,” Frank finally breaks in, making the five of them jump – except Laurel, who meets his eyes and smiles.

Asher, however, is too stupid not to protest, and turns back to look at Frank with a frown. “Yo, Frankie D, just because she’s your baby mama doesn’t mean she gets to scarf down everything in the house!”

Frank just rolls his eyes. “I’ll buy you a new bag of chips. Now shut the hell up and get to work.”

That Doucheface’s tiny brain is finally able to comprehend, and he promptly closes his mouth, lowering his eyes back to his work and grumbling under his breath. Frank takes a seat in the armchair by the living room doorway, sorting idly through stacks of paperwork and trying to get himself to focus. 

It’s past midnight, almost one AM, and as much as he’d like to jump ship and go home and take Laurel with him – because staying up this late can’t be good for the baby, he’s like ninety percent sure she needs her sleep – Annalise made it abundantly clear that no one, under any circumstance, is leaving the office until they find something that will get their client a stay of execution and buy them more time.

He absorbs himself in the mind-numbingly boring work for a while, and then, out of nowhere, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Grateful for the distraction, he pulls it out and checks his messages, only to find Laurel’s name popping up on the screen.

- _Come to the kitchen_ _it’s an emergency!!_

His stomach sinks. His mind starts automatically jumping to worst-case scenarios. She’s losing the baby. She’s losing the baby, because of stress, or some weird medical complication, or-

Not wasting another second, he springs to his feet, tosses the papers aside, and stalks into the kitchen, so quickly that everyone in the living room gives him a strange look. Laurel is standing by the counter when he gets there, shifting her weight from leg to leg, looking restless – and he doesn’t see any blood or other bad signs, but within seconds he’s upon her regardless, heart pounding.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asks. “You okay? The baby okay?”

“What?” She furrows her brow. “Yeah, we’re fine. The baby’s fine.”

He exhales sharply. “Christ, don’t scare me like that. What’s the big emergen-”

“I need you to get me a cheesesteak,” she cuts him off, a look of borderline desperation in her eyes.  

Frank blinks. “Huh?”

“You know, a cheesesteak,” Laurel repeats, exasperated. “Just… the biggest, fattiest, greasiest cheesesteak you can find.”

He smirks. “That’s the emergency?”

“It _is_ an emergency,” she asserts, sounding kind of like a junkie jonesing for a hit. “I-I’ve been craving one for, like, four hours, and I’d go get it myself, but Annalise has us pretty much on lockdown.”

“You don’t even eat cheesesteaks. The last time I had one in front of you, you said it looked like the most disgusting thing you’d ever seen.”

“Yeah, well, your baby’s craving it, and making me crave it too – so, technically, this is all your fault. You think I actually _want_ to eat one? They’re gross, and unhealthy, and cholesterol-filled…” Laurel drifts off, and he’s pretty sure he can actually see her mouth watering. “And… delicious.”

“It’s like one AM. Where am I supposed to find a place that’s open?”

“I don’t know!” she hisses. “Figure it out!”

He just looks at her for a moment, and Laurel’s shoulders slump all at once, her lips tugging downward into a pout.

“Please, Frank,” she pleads. “For the baby?”

Well, there’s no way in hell he can say no to that; she could get him to do pretty much anything by mentioning the baby and batting her eyelashes.

So he rolls his eyes, and caves. “Fine. I’m on it.”

“Thank you,” she breathes. “Now… go. Hurry.”

Obediently, Frank walks back into the living room, grabbing his suit jacket and slipping it on as Laurel settles down into an armchair in the living room. He slides his keys into his pocket, and is just about to turn the corner into the hallway when a voice calls out to stop him.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Annalise _._

Frank turns, and finds her standing just outside her office doors, eyeing him with a frown as the rest of the group, including Laurel, look on from the living room.

“I just gotta do something real quick. I’ll be right back,” he tries to reason with her, but she shakes her head.

“When I said I needed all hands on deck here, I meant I need all hands on deck. No one’s leaving this office until we find evidence that will get the judge to issue a stay of execution. We have six hours, people.”

“It’ll only take-”

“Do I need to repeat myself, Frank?”

Frank opens his mouth, then shuts it and glances into the living room at Laurel. She gives him an urgent look, clearly not about to let him off the hook, and so he exhales sharply, walking toward Annalise, ushering her to the side, and lowering his voice.

“Look,” he says. “Laurel’s craving a cheesesteak. Bad. Real bad. And I’m pretty sure if she doesn’t get one soon, she’s gonna end up murderin’ someone – me, probably. So just let me go. I’ll be back in twenty. Promise.”

For the longest minute in the world, Annalise doesn’t answer. She just looks at him, eyebrows raised, before amusement creeps into her eyes.

“Well,” she tells him, finally. “I know better than to stand between a pregnant woman and her food. Fine. Go get Miss Castillo her sandwich, but make it quick. You’re not back in half an hour, you’re fired.”

With a grateful nod, he takes off, disappearing out the front door and hopping into his car faster than he could even say ‘cheesesteak.’ It takes about ten minutes of driving around the city, but eventually he comes across a shitty twenty-four hour diner, rushes inside, and orders a cheesesteak, slipping the cashier an extra twenty to “expedite the process.”

Within a few minutes, he has the cheesesteak in hand. It looks terrible, fatty and practically dripping with grease; hell, he’s not sure even _he_ would eat it – but it seems like what Laurel wants, and so he brings it back to the office, stepping inside, catching her gaze in the living room, and nodding toward the kitchen. The instant she catches sight of the foil bundle in his hand, her eyes light up. She follows eagerly, scampering out of the room and all but tackling him when they reach the kitchen. In record time she has it unwrapped and shoved into her mouth, closing her eyes and giving a low sound of satisfaction.

“Oh my God,” she says as she sinks down onto one of the stools by the counter, mouth full. “This is so good.”

He chuckles. “Anything for my baby mama.”

Laurel ignores that. “Ugh, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my entire _life_.”

“Our kid must be one hell of a carnivore, if he’s got you eating that pile of grease willingly.”

“ _She_ ,” Laurel corrects him between bites. “And no, she’s not. I’m sure this is-”

Laurel stops abruptly, her mouth falling shut. She glances down at her stomach and furrows her brow, setting her food aside on the counter, then slowly rising to her feet with one hand on her belly.

Frank frowns, taking a step closer. “What’s going on?”

“I… felt a kick,” she breathes, looking up at him with wide eyes and a tentative smile. “I-I think she’s kicking.”

He freezes. “For real?”

“Yeah,” she tells him, as if she can hardly believe it herself. “I can feel her, Frank.”

He hesitates, inexplicably nervous and unsure if he should ask to feel too. Laurel notices, reaching out and grabbing ahold of his hand with a smile.

“Here. Feel.”

She lifts up her blouse and presses his palm to her bare skin, moving it around a few times to find where the stirring is at its strongest. Once she has, she holds it there and looks up at him, beaming.

“There. Do you feel it?”

At first, Frank doesn’t feel anything. It takes a moment for the tiny, almost imperceptible fluttering to register beneath his fingertips, but the moment it does, he freezes, and time itself seems to slow around him – and all he can feel is that fluttering, that miniscule, irrefutable sign of life, declaring over and over _I’m here, I’m here_. Each movement feels like a little earthquake to him; minute, gentle, but somehow more powerful than anything he’s ever felt before in his life.

He can’t speak, for a moment. There’s something that feels almost like a lump in his throat, and when he finally remembers how to form words, his voice comes out low, hoarse.

“That’s him?”

Laurel grins. “Uh huh.”

“You sure it’s not just gas, or something?”

That earns him an eye roll. “ _Yes_ , I’m sure!”

“Well,” he remarks, smiling. “He’s a fan of that cheesesteak, for sure. Good thing he’s inherited my appetite.”

They both laugh at that, and shortly afterward, the fluttering dies down. Frank draws his hand away, then grows abruptly serious and sinks down onto his knees before her, so that he’s eye-level with her stomach; too big to be hidden at all, now, or mistaken for just some weight gain. And it’s cheesy, yeah, but he can’t help but love watching it grow, watching the _both_ of them grow.

“Hey,” he murmurs to her stomach, leaning in close as she lifts up her blouse for him to expose her stomach. “Can you hear me in there, bud?”

Laurel smiles down at him. “Not yet. It’s too early.”

“Okay, so maybe you can’t hear this, but whatever. How’s it goin’, huh? Must be pretty dark in there.”

Above him, Laurel scoffs, prompting Frank to glance up at her.

“Hey,” he mock-chides. “I’m trying to have a moment here.”

Laurel rolls her eyes again, but stays quiet, and he turns his attention back to her stomach.

“You got good taste already. If you’re craving cheesesteaks in the womb, then you’re definitely a boy. No doubt about it.” Laurel opens her mouth to protest, but he continues, “Your mom’s trying to tell me you’re not. Maybe you can figure out some way to convince her.”

He waits for a moment, not really knowing what he’s expecting – a kick of confirmation, maybe, but there’s nothing. Just silence.

“Fair enough.” Frank pauses, thinking for a moment, before continuing. “You’re gonna be the best kid ever, though. And crazy cute. I mean, have you seen me lately?”

“Great,” Laurel quips. “So now our baby’s going to come out already knowing about your giant ego.”

“I’m not bad-looking, that’s all I’m trying to say – and your mom?” He stops for a moment, looking up to meet Laurel’s eyes. “Your mom’s a _total_ stunner.”

Laurel’s eyes soften, and she reaches down, resting a hand on his head and stroking his hair gently as he talks.

“Make sure you go easy on her. Don’t go doing any crazy cartwheels or soccer tournaments in there or nothing. She’s carrying you around, and that must take a whole goddamn lot of work.”

“Frank!” she scolds. “Don’t swear around her!”

He raises his eyebrows. “You just said he couldn’t hear me.”

“Still.”

He lowers his eyes again, grinning. “I gotta go now, little guy. Keep floating along in there. Eat your veggies – or your cheesesteak; you don't really get to pick yet. And you ever need anything, just kick, got it?”

Laurel chuckles, and he draws back slightly, taking hold of her hand and planting a kiss on the back of it, then moving in and doing the same to her stomach. That makes her melt, and she motions for him to stand, drawing him close as soon as he does and kissing him deeply.

“I love you,” she breathes after they pull apart. “Though… For your information, you’re still a hundred percent wrong, about the baby being a boy.”

He shrugs. “Call it a dad’s intuition.”

Laurel laughs, and stands on her tiptoes to kiss him again. A few minutes pass before he moves away once more, eyes dancing.

“Your cheesesteak’s gonna get cold,” he reminds her teasingly. “Wouldn't that be a national tragedy?”

“No. Let it,” she remarks, leaning in for another kiss. “That thing’s disgusting anyway.”


	5. V

So, all things considered, Laurel thinks this whole pregnancy thing is going pretty well so far.

School ends in May, as does her tenure as one of the Keating Five. Despite being probably one of the worst bosses on the planet, Annalise writes them all glowing letters of recommendation that she promises will get them a summer associate position at almost any firm in the city they want.

Connor and Michaela and Asher, predictably, all go for high-profile firms. Wes chooses something smaller, and Laurel ends up settling on a family-owned firm, run by a pair of sisters who specialize in women’s issues. They aren’t as renowned as other firms, maybe, but they’re welcoming, and understanding of her condition – and actually _nice_ , which is something she’d forgotten bosses could be. Working for a huge, ruthless law firm had never been what she’d wanted anyway, so for once, she’s actually happy to go to work.

The hours are shorter. For the first time in months, without school and without the tyranny of Annalise, she isn’t stressed. She’s happy, actually. Relaxed.

In July, she’s officially six months pregnant. She’s big, now; like, actually big, and only getting bigger by the day, expanding out like a balloon. It still kind of scares Laurel sometimes, the thought that there’s an actual baby inside her, who recently hasn’t hesitated to make itself known at all hours of the day with kicks and jabs. And sure, they’re doing everything they should to get ready, but sometimes she has the feeling that she’ll _never_ be ready, no matter how hard she tries.

She’s up late one hot, humid night in mid-July, lounging in bed and perusing a book of baby names and _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_ on and off as she waits for Frank, whose hours are even longer at work now than they were during the school year. Laurel hears the sound of the front door opening outside in the next room, and looks up from her book just in time for a weary-looking Frank to step inside the bedroom, clad in a three-piece suit like always.

“Hey,” he greets, removing his suit jacket and walking over to peck her on the forehead. “How’re my two favorite people?”

Laurel just laughs, and he furrows his brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” she chuckles. “That’s just such a dad thing to say.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, strolling over to the nightstand and removing his watch. “What can I say? I’m in full-on baby mode these days.”

Laurel grins, watching as he removes his waistcoat and unbuttons his shirt. “It’s sexy when you’re all domestic, you know.”

He raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Yeah?”

“Mmm hmm,” she hums. “I like it when you’re a… protective papa bear.”

Frank chuckles, tossing aside his shirt and going for his belt. “I’m gonna hop in the shower. Wanna come?”

“No thanks,” she sighs, leaning back against the pillows. “I’m tired. But… I can always appreciate the view from here.”

Catching her meaning, Frank looks back at her, winks, and then obediently makes off with his pants and boxers.

“Anything for my baby mama.”

Laurel cackles as she watches him saunter off into the bathroom, buck naked. “Stop calling me that!”

He doesn’t answer. The only reply she gets is the hissing sound of the water as he turns on the shower, and so she turns her attention back to the book in her lap, resting it on her belly. Sometime later, Frank reemerges with damp hair and pulls on a pair of sweatpants, drying his face off with a towel.

“Good day?” he asks from across the room.

“Yeah,” she mutters, not glancing up from her reading. “Until a couple hours ago.”

“Why? What happened then?”

“I called my parents, finally,” she sighs. “Told them about the baby, and you. And everything.”

He stops what he’s doing to look at her. “You shoulda waited ‘til I was home, so I could be there.”

She shrugs. “There was no point. It’s not like that would’ve changed anything.”

“So? What’d they say?”

“What do you think?” she chuckles dryly. “They were happy. They love the idea of anything that steers me closer to being a stay-at-home mom and giving up a career. And I mean, they weren’t thrilled about it being ‘out of wedlock,’ but they want us to fly down next month, probably so they can congratulate you for knocking me up.”

He smirks and walks over, slipping underneath the covers. “Out of wedlock? What is this, the eighteenth century?”

“Apparently. They said they’re sending us money, too. Like, _a lot_ of money, in case we need anything.”

“Well, we can pimp out the nursery then. Buy that deluxe stroller model.”

She exhales sharply. “But I just… I don’t want their money, okay? I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of me using it – and maybe it’s dumb, but I don’t want to.”

“Then we won’t,” he assures her. “I make plenty, and I’ll take care of you two. Besides, so what if the kid has one set of sucky grandparents? My mom and dad’ll smother our little guy with love.”

Laurel smiles at the thought. They’d told his family a month ago, at one of the weekly Delfino family dinners, and within seconds she’d had approximately fifty hands on her stomach from fifty different people, all fawning over her and giving pregnancy advice and promising “if you ever need anything at all, honey – _anything_ , we’ll take care of it for you. You’re part of the family now.” She’s pretty sure Frank’s mother had pulled out yarn to start knitting a baby blanket right then and there.

Frank glances down at her book just then, moving in closer. “What’s that?”

“Baby names,” she answers. “Which we need to start getting serious about, by the way.”

“Here. Lemme see.”

Laurel obliges, handing the book over to him and then cuddling up at his side as he starts to skim the pages.

“Before we start, though,” she speaks up. “I have one rule. Well – two.”

“What?”

“No weird names,” Laurel tells him, matter-of-factly. “And if it _is_ weird, I get the final veto.”

“And I don’t?”

“I’m not going to go through the agony of squeezing this baby out just for you to give her some weird name like Basil, or something.”

“Basil? That in here? I kinda like that.”

Laurel scoffs. “See, you just proved my point right there.”

“Fine, fine,” he relents. “You get the veto.”

Frank turns to the front of the book, and Laurel reaches over onto the nightstand for the pen and pad of paper she’d left there, with three columns labeled ‘Boys,’ ‘Girls,’ and ‘Unisex.’

“Hey, look at this list,” he says, as she rests back against the pillows. “’Names with Great Expectations.’ King sounds kind of badass.”

“Absolutely not. Veto.”

“Well, Chastity’s a definite no. That isn’t how this baby got made in the first place.”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “Can you be serious? This is important. Look – Regina. How about Regina? I like how that sounds.”

“Put it down as a maybe.”

Laurel does, and looks up just in time for Frank to point to another of the book’s lists with a chuckle.

“Look. ‘Patriotic Names.’ It has Alamo.”

“Oh my God,” she laughs. “And Eagle. Who names their baby _Eagle_? But hey – ‘In-Crowd Names.’ It has Piper. I like that name, for a girl.”

“Piper? Nah. Too pretentious.”

“Okay, then what about Lexi? Short for Alexis?”

“No way. Stripper name.”

Laurel pauses, considering that. “Actually… that’s a good point. Dakota, then?”

“Maybe.” He turns the page, and points to another line of text. “Here. ‘Strong Names.’ Mungo. Let’s name our kid Mungo just for the hell of it.”

“If you don’t get serious soon, I swear-”

“What about Rock?”

Laurel blinks.

“What – a-are you joking?”

“No,” he says, frighteningly seriously. “It’s right here. That sounds cool, right?”

“Rock,” she repeats incredulously. “Like a… stone, in the ground?”

“Or Johnson.”

“ _Huh_?”

“Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson.”

“That’s it,” she snaps, and reaches over to pluck the book out of his hands, tossing the pad of paper his way. “ _I’m_ holding the book from now on. You’re writing.”

Frank grumbles under his breath, but doesn’t argue, and Laurel turns a few pages until settling on another list.

“Write down Evelyn. I love that name. And Christina. Oh – and Emily.”

“Not Emily.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he explains. “Everyone names their daughter Emily. She’ll be one of, like, fifty Emily’s at school.”

“True,” Laurel concedes. “Hey, can you put Lucia? I have a cousin named Lucia.”

That actually elicits a genuine grin from Frank. “I like that one.”

“Here’re some Italian girl names. Mia. Carina. Those are pretty.”

“All right, but what about boy names? We need some of those too.”

Laurel flips a few pages. “Okay, um… Liam. Owen. Brady. Oh look – Connor.”

“Uh uh,” Frank objects. “I’m not making Hair Gel our baby’s namesake. All those are boring names anyway. Let’s trade off again.”

Laurel glares, but complies, as Frank takes the book and searches the pages for a moment, before looking up at her.

“All right, get ready for this. How about-”

“Before you even start,” she cuts him off. “Is this a weird name?” 

“No,” he promises.

Laurel shakes her head, doubtful, but motions at him to spit it out regardless – and so he does:

“Fargo.”

Oh _God_.

Laurel stops, gives him one long look, then tosses the pad and pen off the side of the bed carelessly.

“All right,” she tells him. “That’s enough baby names for tonight.”

He chuckles and sets aside the book too, leaning in to press his lips to hers. “Why? What’s wrong with Fargo?”

“Can you honestly imagine holding our newborn son in your arms, looking down at him, and calling him _Fargo_? Or _Rock_?”

“Please. He’d rule the school with a name like Rock. Nobody would mess with our kid on the playground and you know it.”

“Whatever you say,” she mutters, reaching over the side of the bed for her laptop. “Here. I got something for us to watch.”

“Yeah?”

Laurel settles back down at his side and opens her laptop, pulling up the browser and starting to type.

“Yeah. Here.”

She finds the video she’s looking for, and glances over at Frank to see his reaction – and as soon as he catches a glimpse of the word ‘childbirth’ in the title, he pales.

“You’re kiddin’, right?” he asks, looking almost like he’s about to bolt.

“I was reading online that we should watch a birth together,” she explains. “This is gonna be me in three months. We should be… ready.”

“I’ll be plenty ready – but this? Not happening.” 

“Grow up and stop acting like such a baby. Do you want to be supportive of me or not?”

There it is: the guilt trip. It works like a charm, and Frank gives in with a sigh, sitting up and folding his arms.

“Fine. But we’re turning it off if it’s too graphic.”

Laurel just scoffs, and clicks the spacebar to play it. “Please. How bad can it be? It’s… the miracle of childbirth.”

The answer?

Bad. _Really_ bad.

Well, it’s not that bad at first. It’s just a woman in a hospital bed, feet in stirrups, with everything on display – which is not the most pleasant sight in the world, but Laurel can get past that. A few minutes in, there’s a lot of yelling, and some cursing, and then a little screaming. It scares her a bit, sure, but she can handle it. She has a strong stomach.

But then the actual birth starts – and it’s not _pretty_ or _magical_ or a _miracle_ , not like in movies anyway; when it’s just a bit of screaming, a few easy pushes, and no blood. Oh God, _this_ … This looks like a veritable horror show, with blood and guts and she doesn’t even want to know what else. It’s terrifying. It makes her want to squeeze her legs shut and never let this baby come out – because _God_ , there’s no way in hell her body is capable of doing that.

She only makes it another minute before burying her face into Frank’s shoulder. “I can’t watch anymore.” 

“Jesus,” Frank remarks, breathing out slowly and closing the laptop. “See? Told ya that was a bad idea.”

Laurel moves back to look at him, and finds him with his lip curled up in revulsion, a similarly shell-shocked look on his face. She doesn’t blame him; she’s surprised he hasn’t actually thrown up yet, in all honestly.

She gulps, her own stomach churning. “That-that was… horrible. God, Frank, that was _awful_.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “That was. So much for the miracle of childbirth, huh?”

“That’s going to be me,” she breathes, increasingly distraught. “I-I’m going to do… _that_. I don’t think I _can_ do that.”

Frank sets the laptop aside, switches off the lamp on the nightstand, and moves back over to her.

“It’ll be okay.”

“Easy for you to say,” she snaps. “You’re not the one who’s going to be pushing a coconut out of a hole that is definitely _not_ coconut-sized.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, lying back against the pillows, wrapping an arm around her, and pulling her close. “But I’m gonna be there with you, the whole time. Promise.”

“And that’s supposed to make up for hours and hours of excruciating pain?”

“You got advance permission to break my hand, if you need it.”

That draws a shaky laugh from her. “I… might take you up on that, actually.”

“Look,” he undertones. “If anyone can do that, you can. You’re the strongest person I know.”

She gives him a look of disbelief. “Yeah, right.”

“Seriously. You are. You’re carrying around our kid 24/7. That already makes you pretty badass in my book.”

“Thanks, I guess?”

They share a laugh at that. Once they sober up, Laurel turns onto her back and rests a hand on her stomach, caressing it gently and feeling the baby stir just the tiniest bit; a sensation that never gets any less strange, or any less amazing. It’s like her changing body is one big science experiment, and it’s just as fascinating as it is scary, sometimes.

“Three months,” she mutters, lips pressed together in thought.

“Three months,” he echoes.

Laurel glances up at him. “Do you think we’re ready?”

“No,” he admits, giving her a squeeze. “But who the hell ever is, right?”

They aren’t reassuring words – not in the slightest, but they make her smile regardless, and Laurel leans back against him with a content little sigh, closing her eyes.

“Yeah. I guess you’ve got a point there.”


	6. VI

It’s mid-afternoon when she gets the call from Frank at work.

“Hey,” she greets, stepping outside and putting the phone up to her ear. “What’s up?”

“You got plans tonight?”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “I’m seven months pregnant, Frank. I don’t have a whole lot going on these days.”

“Good. ‘Cause I signed us up to babysit.”

She blinks. “Babysit for who?”

“My cousin Dino’s babysitter bailed on him last minute, and he and his wife got plans to see some show tonight. I volunteered us. Figured it’d be good parenting experience.”

“Uh, yeah, that sounds fine. How many kids do they have?”

That’s when there’s a pause on Frank’s end of the line.

“… You’re not gonna like it.”

Laurel narrows her eyes. “How many kids, Frank?”

“Before I tell you-”

“Just _tell me_.”

There’s another longer, more pregnant pause – even more pregnant than _she_ is. Then, finally, out comes the answer:

“Six.”

 

\--

 

“I cannot believe you volunteered us to babysit _six_ kids,” Laurel grumbles, as Frank opens the car door and holds out a hand to help her out.

She makes a point not to take it, however, and waddles without his help over onto the sidewalk in front of his cousin’s house; a modestly sized place in a blue-collar neighborhood, with a small garden out front and a gate encircling the yard. Frank quickens his pace until he’s at her side, placing a hand on the small of her back – ostensibly to guide her, or keep her from tripping, or protect her from whatever invisible threat he’s apparently identified tonight.

“Weren’t you just saying the other day we should do something like this?” he asks, unlatching the gate and ascending the front steps.

“Yeah, with _one_ kid – maybe two. But not _six_.”

“It’s only for a couple hours. How bad can it be? They’re just kids,” Frank says as he rings the doorbell, glancing sideways at Laurel just in time to see her wince and rub her back with one hand. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she sighs, fixing her blouse and putting on a smile for whoever is about to answer the door. “Your baby just weighs, like, three million pounds.”

He actually has the audacity to shrug.

“Sorry about that. Delfino kids are all ten-pounders – accordin’ to my Ma, at least.” Laurel rolls her eyes, but he ignores her. “Hey, you took your vitamins today, right?”

“Yes, I’m not stupid,” she says through her teeth, still smiling. “Stop hovering over me. I’m-”

The front door opens then, cutting her off and revealing a petite, tanned woman; no more than thirty-five, with dyed blonde hair and vanilla perfume so strong that Laurel can actually smell it wafting out onto the porch. As soon as she sees Frank, her eyes light up, and she throws open the screen door too, enveloping him in a hug.

“Frankie! Oh my _God_ , it’s been so long!” she exclaims in a noticeable Philly accent, even thicker than Frank’s. “So long! How long’s it been? Oh, who cares?”

She moves back and glances at Laurel then, drawing her in for a vice-like hug too. “And this must be Lauren! The baby mama!”

Oh, _God_. She’s going to have to give Frank a serious talking to about calling her that behind her back.

“Laurel,” Frank corrects her, but the woman doesn’t act like she’s even heard.

“Look at you; you’re glowing! And huge!” she laughs. “You know that means it’s a boy, right? I was huge like that with my first two, and trust me: it means boy.”

“He’s been trying to tell me that. I still think he’s wrong.” Laurel smiles, her irritability melting away for a moment. “Uh, I’m sorry, I never got your name…?”

“Marlene. Dino’s wife,” the woman answers, then turns back into the house and shouts so loudly that it makes Laurel jump. “Speaking of – _Dino_! _Get down here; Frank and Lauren are here_!”

She turns and ushers them inside with one hand. “Here, come in, come in. Lauren, I’ll introduce you to the kids.”

Laurel nods and follows – and the instant she steps in, she finds herself confronted by a scene of veritable chaos.

There are toys strewn about on every single surface in the living room; she steps on one accidentally as she trails behind Marlene, and it squeaks loudly, making her jump. Everything is crooked, and the coffee table is missing a leg, teetering dangerously to one side. The couch is worn and stained with what looks like apple juice – or, God forbid, something else equally yellow.

And then there are the kids. And there are kids _everywhere_.

Two boys who look about seven and nine are chasing each other around the living room, hitting each other with toy lightsabers. Two dark-haired little girls of around four, who look similar enough to be twins, are busy hacking the hair off of dolls with scissors and giggling in what can only be described as diabolical delight. There’s another toddler, a tiny girl in a tiny pink dress, sucking on her thumb, wobbling her way around the room with a teddy bear in hand, and looking relatively innocuous in comparison to her siblings.

The cacophony of sounds – shouting, high-pitched giggling, the snipping of scissors, the plastic _clunking_ of colliding toy lightsabers – almost gives Laurel a headache immediately, and she glances sideways at Frank, only to find him looking similarly overwhelmed.  

Marlene disappears for a moment, then reemerges with yet another one: a green-eyed baby boy, probably only six months old at the most, in a little pair of overalls. She hands him off to a totally unprepared Laurel, who has to grapple to get ahold of the baby to keep from dropping him.

“Here you go, hon,” she tells her. “And here’s number six: little Lorenzo.”

Laurel smiles, moving back to look at the baby’s chubby face. “Oh, he’s adorable.”

Marlene scoffs. “Sure, he _looks_ adorable, but he poops up a storm. He’s like a machine. Get ready for heavy diaper duty tonight, let me tell you. Now, those two over there?”

She points to the boys chasing each other.

“Benny and Marco, they’re little terrors. Just let them run around in circles ‘til they fall asleep; it’s the only way to get them down, I swear. And whatever you do, good God, keep them away from sugar. _Hey, Benny, stop hitting your brother_!”

Laurel flinches at that, and Marlene gestures to the girls in the corner.

“Nora and Gabrielle, they’re the twins. Good, for the most part. Just make sure neither one of them starts havin’ a temper tantrum, because if one starts crying, they’ll both wail their lungs out for centuries, and you’ll wanna kill yourself by the end of it. They feed on each other’s energy like little demons.”

One of the little boys collides with Laurel just then, knocking her to the side, pausing for a second, before getting up and continuing to scamper around like nothing had even happened. Marlene doesn’t remark on it, and reaches down to scoop the small girl with the stuffed animal up into her arms.

“And here is little Sofia,” she says, softening her voice and stroking the girl’s hair. “Eh, she’s not so bad, are you, baby? She’s the quiet one.”

Thoroughly dazed by it all, Laurel opens her mouth to say something – when suddenly Marlene turns to the rest of the kids in the living room and raises her voice.

“All right, kids! You remember Cousin Frankie, don’t you? He and Lauren are watchin’ you tonight. I want you all to be good, got it? If mommy gets a bad report, mommy’s not going to be very happy.”

One of the twin girls stops what she’s doing upon hearing that, gets to her feet, and toddles over to Frank, pulling on his pant leg and looking up at him with big brown eyes.

“Frankie!” she cries out, holding up her doll with its chopped-off hair proudly. “Look what I did!”

Frank grins and bends down to pick her up. “Yeah? You really thought Barbie needed a haircut, huh?”

The girl nods solemnly, just as her twin looks over, sees her sister being held, and makes her way over as well, indignant.

“No fair!” she declares with a pout. “I want Frankie to hold me too!”

“Hey, hey,” Frank soothes, reaching down to gather her into his free arm. “There’s more than enough of Frankie to go around, promise.”

From across the room, Laurel stops what she’s doing to watch the three of them, shifting Lorenzo from one hip to the other. It makes her positively melt, the sight of Frank with his arms full of the two tiny girls, and she only realizes that she’s staring when Marlene notices, laughs, and leans in to murmur in her ear.

“You made a good choice, y’know. Frank tries to act like a macho tough guy, but really he’s just a big softy, and he’s always been great with our kids,” she tells her, grinning. “Now c’mon. I’ll show you where everything in the nursery is.”

After doing exactly that, giving them a few phone numbers, and talking for a while longer, Marlene and Dino depart, leaving them alone in the living room with the horde of small children. Frank lets the twins down, and they scamper off into the kitchen just in time for the boys to run up to him instead, position their lightsabers, and start pummeling away relentlessly at his legs.

“Ow,” he winces. “Hey, hey, not cool guys – cut it out.”

In the kitchen, out of nowhere, they hear a distinct crash – a plate breaking, probably, followed by a shout of: “ _Nora, you broke it_!”

With little Lorenzo still on her hip, Laurel glances over at Frank, who has just managed to fend off the lightsaber onslaught. He meets her eyes, rubbing his aching leg with a frown.

“Christ, that hurt.”

“Well, it’s like you said,” she deadpans with a sigh, staring out at the pandemonium around her. “They’re just kids. How bad can it be?”

 

\--

 

Two hours in, and they’re barely keeping their heads above the water. No one has died yet – Laurel figures she can count that as a minor victory, at least.

The twins start crying after the first hour, and carry on for almost thirty minutes straight, prompting little Lorenzo to burst into tears in Laurel’s arms, too. She’s never heard so much screaming before in her life, and she’s just about to start screaming herself when finally Frank gets the twins settled down, then offers to take Lorenzo from her and give her sore arms a break. Her back aching, she plops down on the couch, where Frank takes a seat beside her, patting the baby’s back and murmuring soothing words in his ear.

She watches the two of them with a grin for a moment, before one of the boys – Marco, she thinks – rushes up to her with wide eyes and all but flings himself into her lap.  

“Woah!” he gasps, peering down at her stomach. “Your belly’s _huge_! What’d you eat?”

Laurel laughs and places a hand on her belly. “Uh, nothing. I’m pregnant. This is my baby.”

The little boy’s mouth drops open in shock.

“You _swallowed_ your baby?”

Laurel hesitates. Well, there’s no way in hell she’s about to explain to a third-grader the intricacies of how this baby _actually_ got put inside her, and so she just nods.

“Yeah, I, um… swallowed my baby,” Laurel supplies weakly, and his jaw drops even further.

Within seconds, he takes off across the room, yelling, “Ben! Ben, the babysitter _ate her baby_! We gotta get it out!”

Laurel looks over at Frank, who is still sitting beside her trying to console the wailing Lorenzo, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Really? You told him you ate our kid?”

She scoffs. “Okay, what was the alternative? Explain the birds and the bees to him?”

Frank doesn’t answer. He just wrinkles his nose as if smelling something foul, leans in closer to baby Lorenzo’s diaper, and draws back with a grimace.

“Well, now we know what the problem is,” he remarks, rising to stand and heading for the nursery. “Diaper time.”

Laurel gets to her feet as well and follows him into the next room, where the cramped little nursery is.

“Here. I’ll help.”

Frank gives her a look of disbelief, stopping in front of the changing table and setting the baby down.

“What, you really wanna do the honors?”

“No, I just…” Laurel sighs. “Can you show me? I don’t know how.”

Frank looks surprised. “You don’t know how to change a diaper?”

“No, I don’t. I never had to learn; I never babysat, or anything – and don’t pretend like you’re some kind of expert, all right?”

“I am, actually. Now watch and learn,” he chuckles as he goes to work, peeling off the dirty diaper and cleaning Lorenzo off. “Grew up with four siblings. I was the oldest. Dad was a mechanic, so we couldn’t afford a nanny like you had. If there was a diaper that needed changing, my parents had me doing it with them as soon as I could walk.”

“Really?”

“Yep,” Frank tells her, putting on the clean diaper so quickly that she can hardly even follow what he’s doing, then scooping Lorenzo back up into his arms. “Besides, us Delfino’s are all good Catholics, and Catholics pop out kids like bunnies. I got about twenty cousins. I been roped into babysitting more times than I can count.”

It takes Frank roughly thirty seconds to calm the baby down after that, and Laurel watches, astonished, as he drifts off almost instantaneously in Frank’s arms, his tiny eyelids fluttering shut as sleep overcomes him. Gently, Frank lowers him into the nearby crib, and steps back after a moment, taking notice of the shocked look on Laurel’s face.

“What?” he half-whispers, to keep from disturbing Lorenzo.

“Nothing,” she murmurs, peering down into the crib. “Just… how do you do that? I was trying to calm him down for, like, half an hour, and you put him to sleep in three seconds.”

Frank only turns toward the door, and shrugs.  

“I know how to work my magic. Now c’mon. Let’s get the other fearsome fivesome to bed too.”

 

\--

 

It’s almost midnight by the time Laurel finally finishes persuading the boys to stop jumping on their beds, relinquish their lightsabers, and lay down to sleep.

Exhausted, she plods back down the stairs into the living room, where Frank sits on the couch, flipping through a TV guide in the blessed silence. He looks up as soon as he hears her footsteps, and scoots over to make room for her on the couch.

“I finally got them to bed,” she says with a yawn, lying down. “Someone call the Pope. It’s a miracle.”

“I say we did pretty well,” Frank chimes in. “And besides, when our kid gets here, we’ll only have to deal with a sixth of what we dealt with tonight. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

“I kind of doubt that,” she mumbles, then winces, reaching behind to rub her back. “Ugh, my back has been killing me all day.”

“Here. I’ll rub your feet.”

“My feet?” She furrows her brow. “How’s that going to help with my back?”

“It’s a pressure point thing. If you massage all the right spots it’s supposed to help with back pain,” he explains, as he removes her socks and tugs her feet into his lap. Laurel gives him a strange look, and Frank shrugs. “What? I been reading all those baby books you keep buyin’. Bon caught me with one at work yesterday and still won’t let it go.”

Laurel chuckles. “Really?”

“Yeah. She’s started campaigning for godmother, too. Think it might come down to a fight to the death between her and Annalise.”

At that, she smiles. She hasn’t seen Annalise since leaving the firm in May, but every so often Frank will come home from work with small presents from her – a few children’s picture books, a yellow onesie, a handmade teething rattle. Each time it kind of surprises her, because she’d always thought Annalise is as far from sentimental as they come.

Frank sets about rubbing her feet just then, and she almost moans aloud at the feeling. “Oh my _God_ , that’s incredible.”

“Told ya.”

“You’re so good at it all,” she says with a sigh, closing her eyes, rubbing her stomach with one hand, and lying her head back against a pillow. “You’re gonna be such a great dad, and I don’t even know how to change a diaper.”

“So you’ll learn,” he tells her dismissively. “It’s not hard.”

“And everything else? Like how to raise a child for the next eighteen years?”

He stops what he’s doing and moves closer to her. “We’ll learn that too. Together.”

Laurel feels a kick inside her out of nowhere, almost like the baby is announcing its presence and demanding to be included in the conversation.

She grins sleepily, yawning again. “She’s kicking. I think she likes the sound of that.”

“Yeah?” he says quietly, lowering his lips to press them to her stomach. “Good. Then tell your mom not to worry.”

They stay like that for a moment in silence, and then, Frank glances up at her with just the tiniest flicker of doubt in his eyes; one of the first she’s seen over the past seven months.

“You really think I’ll be a good dad?”

“Of course,” she tells him, running a hand through his hair. “You’ll be amazing at it.”

A little grin plays at his lips. “Can’t wait to meet him, y’know.”

“Yeah,” she sighs contently. “Me either.”

Another moment passes without a word, with Frank just resting his face on her belly, staring at it with tenderness in his eyes, so much tenderness that it makes her weak – but not weak enough to forget the stabbing ache in her back, which is only growing worse by the second.

“So, this is really sweet and all, but…” Laurel pipes up teasingly. “My feet aren’t going to rub themselves.”

“Yes ma’am.” Frank chuckles, and moves back. “Anything for my-”

“No, no, do _not_ say it-”

“-baby mama,” he finishes, just to spite her, and she rolls her eyes with as much emphasis as she can muster.

“I’m going to kick you,” she chortles. “You’re the worst.”

Frank just winks at her, and goes back to work. “Don’t I know it?”


	7. VII

“Could you possibly drive _any_ slower?”

“Chill out. I’m goin’ the speed limit.”

Laurel rolls her eyes, shifting in her seat. “No, the speed limit is forty-five. You’re driving twenty.”

“Can you blame me for being cautious? You’re pregnant as hell, Laurel. And so what if it takes us a couple extra minutes to get there?”

“’Pregnant as hell?’ Thanks,” she scoffs. “And look, the class starts in five. If you don’t speed up we’re gonna be-”

The sudden, insistent honking of a car horn behind them cuts Laurel off. Frank scowls, gazing into the rearview mirror.

“Hey, asswipe, we got a baby on board here!” he raises his voice slightly, then grumbles under his breath as the other car changes lanes and zooms past them. “Dick.”

Laurel sighs. “Please just go a little faster. It’s not going to hurt either of us.”

Frank hesitates. Then, he eases his foot onto the gas just the tiniest bit more – and the speedometer ticks up to a formidable twenty-five miles per hour.

Laurel almost groans aloud. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Fine, fine,” he says, tearing his eyes momentarily from the road to look at her. “I’ll do thirty – but even that’s pushing it-”

“Red light. _Red light_!”

Swearing, Frank freezes at once, and jams his foot on the gas so hard that the tires screech. They both lurch forward, as the car comes to a stop just before the intersection. He takes one look up at the glowing red light, and then another sideways at an indignant Laurel, who is glowering, but otherwise looks fine thanks to her seatbelt – which he’d triple-checked she’d been wearing before even starting the car.

“Shit, sorry – are you-”

“Frank!” she snaps. “Are you _trying_ to make me go into preterm labor here?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but she clenches her jaw and cuts him off before he can.

“The light is green. Just drive.” Still caught off guard, Frank doesn’t make a move, and she exhales sharply. “Would you just fucking _drive_!?”

In that tone, he doesn’t have to be told twice. Frank steps on the gas pronto, and drives exactly the speed limit for rest of the way there; not a single mile less, or a single mile more. And maybe it’s stupid, but he’s not risking any more sudden movements with an eight-months-pregnant Laurel in the passenger seat. In hindsight, actually, maybe he should’ve had her sit in the back. That would’ve been safer – though he’s sure she wouldn’t have been a big fan of the idea.

Next time, maybe.  

Laurel doesn’t comment on his speed, but clearly she’s still miffed, and unbuckles her seatbelt with an unnecessary amount of force as they pull into the parking lot of a local hospital, where they’d signed up to take a part-childbirth, part-parenting class. He hops out of the car and circles around it to help her do the same, only to be rebuffed when he holds out his hand for her to take.

“You can quit handling me with kid gloves, you know,” Laurel grumbles as she slams the door behind her. “I’m not going to break.”

“I’m trying to watch out for you. Why’s that so bad?”

Frank places a hand on her back, like he’s become accustomed to doing recently – only this time Laurel smacks him away, hard.

“I do not need help walking, either!”

Frank opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and promptly shuts it, instead taking a step toward the entrance in silence. Laurel follows at his side, waddling along, but just as they reach the door and he pulls it open for her, she sighs, coming to a stop.

“Sorry,” she mutters. “I’m not mad at you. Ever since school’s started back up again I’ve just been… exhausted.”

“Hey,” he undertones, leaning in close and giving her the most reassuring grin he can muster. “I get it. ‘Sides, I got a thick skin; I can take a little verbal abuse. Now c’mon. Let’s go get a baby education.”

They make their way down a hallway, into a large open room with wooden floors, where ten or so other couples are already gathered in a circle on the ground. They take their seats as well – and as Frank glances around the circle at their fellow parents, quickly he gets the sense that they look like the odd couple out.

Half the dads-to-be are wearing sweater vests, and all are bright-eyed, white-teethed, and immaculately groomed. Almost every woman is equipped with a notepad and a pen, smiling and looking perfectly perky despite being as heavily pregnant as Laurel, who is almost constantly exhausted and complaining these days. They all look like airbrushed models straight out of those pregnancy pamphlets she’s been making him read, actually.

Laurel, apparently, notices that too, and leans over to whisper to him. “How are these couples all so… perfect?”

“Dunno,” he murmurs back. “It’s creepy. But who’s to say we’re not perfect? We got as much baby knowledge as the rest of ‘em.”

Laure doesn’t look very reassured. “The woman next to us is talking about the benefits of _eating the placenta_.”

Over the last few months, he’s developed a pretty strong stomach, what with increasingly frequent OB visits and other tidbits he’s found, courtesy of the internet or Laurel. He’s heard the word ‘vagina’ too many times to count – and even said it a couple himself, which is weird as hell, honestly, because he’s not used to thinking of that part of the body as… that.

Anyway, the point is: he’s fine with the technical stuff. Really, he is – but _that_ makes his stomach turn.

“Shit, seriously?”

“Yeah,” Laurel nods, looking equally queasy. “Frank, I think these people might be cra-”

A woman’s voice, lilting and delicate, interrupts her before she can finish that sentence.

“All right, attention everybody! Let’s get started, shall we?”

They turn their attention up front, and find a relatively young woman – early thirties, at most – standing there, clad in a long, flowing bohemian skirt, all kind eyes and too-big smiles.

“I’m Summer, and I’ll be your instructor tonight, as we guide you all on the miraculous journey of parenthood.” Frank furrows his brow at the cheesiness of that, and the woman takes a seat, looking around the circle. “First, gentleman, scooch behind your ladies and enfold them in your arms. Good – now, let’s all go around the circle and introduce ourselves. Tell us what you’re all planning on naming your little bundles of joy so we can get to know each other better.”

So they do. There’s a predictable amount of posh, rich people baby names – Everett, Blair, Georgina, two Bentley’s – and precious few normal ones. After a couple minutes it’s their turn, and Frank is just about to open his mouth when Laurel pipes up first.

“Uh, hi. I’m Laurel. This is…”

She glances back at Frank, beckoning him silently to introduce himself, and he gives them all his best shit-eating grin.

“Frank. The baby da-”

Laurel elbows him in the ribs – _hard_ – before he can finish, and he winces.

“Frank,” he repeats, rubbing his aching side. “The boyfriend.”

“Nice to meet you, Frank and Laurel,” the others echo in a creepy, cult-esque unison.

“And what’re you naming your baby?” the instructor asks.

Laurel pauses. “Oh, we don’t actually-”

“Rock,” Frank interrupts, straight-faced.

He’d expected that to shock the woman – that’s the only reason he’d really said it, after all – but instead her eyes light up, and she grins.

“Rock!” she repeats. “I’ve never heard that one before! I love it.”

They move on to the next couple, and Frank takes the opportunity to lean forward and murmur in her ear, “You’re right. These people are nuts.”

They move on shortly after that, and the instructor launches into a very length – and very detailed – lecture about the different stages of labor and delivery. That doesn’t really faze Frank; he’s an old pro at this by now, and so he kind of zones out for a while, until a petite blonde woman directly in front of them raises her hand to ask a question.

“Could you talk a bit about water births? Michael and I have been considering one, but we’re not really sure.”

“The hell’s a water birth?” he leans forward and asks Laurel quietly.

She rolls her eyes, whispering back, “What does it sound like? You give birth in water. Like in a… kiddie pool, I think.”

Bewildered by that, Frank raises his hand, drawing the attention of the instructor, who turns to look at him.

“Yes, Frank?”

“How does the kid not drown if it comes out underwater?” he asks, bluntly.

The blonde woman and her husband give him a strange look. In front of him, Laurel pinches the bridge of her nose, murmuring under her breath, “Oh, God…”

“Actually, babies are essentially aquatic animals,” the woman explains patiently. “They don’t breathe with their own lungs in the womb. If they’re born underwater, their body doesn’t receive the signal yet to breathe. That’s why it’s perfectly fine.”

“You hear that?” he asks Laurel, lowering his voice. “Our kid’s an aquatic animal. Kinda like a fish.”

He can tell Laurel tries to act annoyed, but just ends up breaking into a smile and laughing softly.

“So, what kind of birth are you two planning?”

Frank’s head snaps up when he realizes the question had been directed at them, and finds the instructor smiling over at them. He doesn’t answer; he has no idea, actually, and that kind of decision is more Laurel’s department anyway, he figures.

“Um, just a normal one, I guess,” she says. “In a hospital.”

“Natural or no?”

“Maybe,” Laurel answers. “I’m still thinking about it.”

“And have you thought about what position you’d like to give birth in?”

That seems to genuinely baffle Laurel, and she pauses, glancing back at him briefly. “I don’t… On my back, I guess?”

“See, there are _so_ many more possibilities than what doctors in hospitals will lead you to believe is the norm. And that leads us to our next topic: delivery options…”

The class goes on for a few hours longer. Not all of it is boring; he actually does learn some stuff, and halfway through Laurel volunteers him to wear an empathy belly, which weighs a thousand pounds, hurts his back a lot, and reminds him again just how badass she is for lugging around this much weight every day. It sucks, sure, but it’s worth it just to hear Laurel laugh, harder than he’s heard her laugh in weeks.

Towards the end, the instructor brings up a woman who she calls a ‘master mom,’ to impart her wisdom to them during this “special time in their lives.” But what was supposed to be wisdom just ends up being a long, droning, downright depressing speech about parenthood, and how hard it is, and how it changes everything forever, and not always for the better.

How much it sucks, basically.

“Trust me,” she tells them matter-of-factly. “Having a baby seems like a great idea at first, but then bam! Those little buggers will suck you dry. Diapers – they cost a lot more than you’d think, and newborns burn through ‘em like you wouldn’t believe. They’ll cry all night, every night. Say goodbye to your normal sleep schedule forever. And do not even get me _started_ on saving for college. I want to cry just thinking about it.”

By the end, Frank is a hell of a lot more scared than he’d been before, and as they make their way out of the room and back into the hall, he notices Laurel with a look of worry on her face too.

“She was a real ray of sunshine, huh?” he asks, coming to a stop outside in the hallway.

“She made it sound like the worst thing ever,” Laurel sighs. “Like after we have this baby, we’re never going to have any fun again. Just diapers and never getting any sleep a-and misery.”

“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” he says, trying to reassure her and himself. Laurel doesn’t look at all convinced, and so he takes a step closer to her. “Or if it will be, then let’s do something. Tomorrow night. One last hurrah.”

Laurel scoffs. “What, you mean a night out on the town? I’m barely even mobile.”

“Just dinner at a nice place. We’ll go wherever you want. Besides, it’s been forever since we had date night.”

She shakes her head. “You heard her; we shouldn’t eat out anymore. We should be using the money to set up a savings fund for college, or-”

“Or nothing. I’m taking you out tomorrow night and that’s final.” She opens her mouth to protest, but he pays no attention. “We can do Italian if you want. Get our little guy hooked in utero so he comes out beggin’ for bruschetta.”

At first she bristles again, and he thinks that she’s about to shoot the idea down for good – but then Laurel relaxes, and grins, relenting.

“Okay. Fine. It’s a date.”

 

\--

 

It takes a lot of persuading, and a bit of bribery, and playing the ‘c’mon, man, my girlfriend is pregnant’ card, but eventually he succeeds in getting a last-minute reservation at Moretti’s, an authentic Italian place downtown that Laurel has always loved.

They haven’t gone out on an actual date in months. Most of the time, and especially in her condition now, Laurel prefers to cook dinner at their apartment with just the two of them; she isn’t really the going-out type, and he’s fine with that. He’s the same way, most of the time.

But, he figures, they should have one last killer, fancy, dressed-up date night before they become sleep-deprived new parents who never want to do anything. So he’ll take her out tonight and treat her like a queen, and buy her whatever the hell she wants off the menu – which, with her bottomless pit of an appetite, might be a lot, but he doesn’t care. Then they’ll go home, and… Well, probably not have sex; sex isn’t exactly feasible these days. Maybe they’ll just cuddle. Yeah – cuddle. That sounds like as good a plan as any.

With this plan in mind, Frank gets home from work around seven and steps inside the door, expecting to find Laurel waiting for him, all dressed up and ready, but instead he is greeted with a dark, empty living room, and no Laurel at all. Confused, he looks around, and notices a light on in the second bedroom they’d designated as the nursery-to-be.

He makes his way over to the door and peeks his head inside – and there he finds Laurel, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the half-empty nursery, clad in sweatpants and a t-shirt, clearly not at all ready to go.

“Laurel?”

She glances up at him, and when she does, he sees that her cheeks are soaked with tears, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy. He furrows his brow and hurries over, kneeling next to her with a frown.

“Hey, what’s wrong? You okay?”

For a long moment, she doesn’t answer. Then, she lowers her eyes, and sniffs. “I’m fine. I-I… I’m being dumb, I just…”

She drifts off. Frank waits, leaning in closer to listen.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Laurel finally admits, her voice cracking.

“What do you mean?”

“I-I have no clue how to be a mom,” she confesses. “All those women yesterday just… seemed like they knew exactly what they were doing – and I don’t know _anything_. I was raised by half a dozen different nannies. My parents weren’t around like yours. How’re you supposed to be a mom when yours never taught you how?”

“Look, it’s-”

“And school’s started again,” she continues, wiping at her cheeks. “And Annalise has new students. And one day, maybe not this year, but eventually… You’ll find another Frank’s girl. One who’s not… b-bloated and fat and disgusting, and doesn’t have stretch marks, and-”

“Hey,” Frank raises his voice slightly. “I would never do that, Laurel. You _know_ I’d never do that.”

“Well, you say that now-”

“I don’t want anyone but you,” he tells her, firmly. “Ever. I love you – more than anything else in the whole world. Okay?”

Laurel hesitates, but nods, releasing a breath. “Yeah. Okay.”

Frank moves back somewhat, and smirks in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Besides, you got something goin’ for you no other girl has. You’re carrying our kid.”

Instead of making her laugh like he’d wanted, Laurel’s face just crumples again, and fresh tears spill down her cheeks.

“What?” she chokes out. “Is that the only reason you love me? Because I’m the… vessel for your spawn?”

“No – no, that wasn’t what I meant. I was just trying to say that…” He pauses. “I’d still love you the same without the baby. You know I would. But I love you so much more because of it, Laurel-”

“So technically y-you’d love me less without it? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m just…” he exhales sharply. “I’m trying to tell you that I love you. That’s all. And I don’t want any other girl again, ever. I promise.”

They lapse into silence again. Frank moves closer to her, so that he’s seated at her side, and wraps an arm around her, drawing her into his chest. Laurel sniffles, as he feels her tears dampening the shoulder of his suit jacket.

“It’s not just that. I’m so scared, of everything. Of actually _having_ the baby – because it’s supposed to hurt bad, really bad, and they told us yesterday that you can tear, a-and I don’t want to _tear_ down there, Frank!”

“Maybe you won’t,” he tries to soothe her. “And if you do, they can… stitch you back up, right?”

That only draws a harsher sob from her. “Oh _God_ , I didn’t even think about that-”

Frank grinds his teeth. Dammit, he’s really screwing this up.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, stroking her hair with one hand. “Forget I said that. Just… It’ll be okay. Look at me.”

It takes her a moment, but she does, and he meets her eyes back, resting a hand on her cheek.

“Even if it hurts, you have any idea how cool it’ll be to meet him, finally? And hold him? He’ll be our own little person. A bundle of both our DNA. And I mean, he’s bound to be cute as hell.”

Laurel manages a watery smile at that. “Or she.”

“Or she,” he concedes, kissing the top of her head. “Either way.”

She takes a deep breath, calming down somewhat. After a minute, she moves away and sits up, drying her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“But what about school?” she asks after a moment. “I don’t want to take time off. Studies show that women who take time off from school to have babies usually just end up dropping out to stay home, and I don’t want that to be me. The girl who gets pregnant and gives up her career.”

For a moment, Frank pauses, and the silence lingers heavily in the air around them.

“What if I took time off?” he asks, abruptly. “Paternity leave. That’s a thing, right?”

Laurel furrows her brow. “You can’t do that, Frank. Annalise needs you.”

“Yeah, well, not as much as you two need me.”

“No, I should just do it,” she mutters. “Drop out. It’s… probably inevitable that it’ll happen anyway.”

“No way,” he breaks in. “You’re way too smart to quit school. Way smarter than I’ll ever be. You’re not throwin’ everything away because of this.” She opens her mouth to protest, but he keeps going. “I’ll take some time off. Six months, or more. I got money saved. We’ll be fine.”

“And what about Annalise? She’ll be mad at you.”

“So? Might be good for her. Maybe she’ll have to try winning her cases the legal way for once.”

That draws a soft laugh from Laurel. She leans back against the rocking chair behind them and sighs, resting a hand on her dome of a stomach and staring at it with a look of contemplation.

“I don’t get it,” she finally remarks, glancing over at him. “I don’t get how you’re never scared. You don’t even seem… _nervous_ , and I don’t understand, because I’m scared, like, all the time.”

“You don’t think I’m scared?”

“Well, no,” she says, like it’s obvious. “You never act like it.”

“’Course I’m scared,” he confesses, and she blinks, caught off guard, but looking oddly reassured.

“Really?”

He nods, drawing her close and lacing his fingers through hers on top of her belly.

“Yeah. I’m scared that I’m gonna screw him up, somehow. Say the wrong thing. _Do_ the wrong thing. I can babysit for a few hours, sure, but havin’ a kid of your own is a whole other story.” Frank stops to think. “I’m scared I won’t be good enough for him – or her. Or you. That I won’t be the kind of dad he can look up to when he gets older.”

She smiles, resting a hand on the side of his face and brushing a finger across his chin.

“I think you will be,” she says. “If you’re afraid of that, then you will be. And you’ll be good enough. Better than good enough.”

He grins, raising an eyebrow. “Think so?”

“I know so.”

Frank leans in, pressing his lips to hers in a tender, chaste kiss – but Laurel yanks herself away abruptly, as if remembering something.

“The reservation!” she breathes. “Oh God, I totally forgot about tonight!”

He shrugs. “Who cares? We’ll order in if you don’t feel like going out.”

Frank gets to his feet, extending a hand to help her up, and she takes it, pulling herself into a standing position with a great deal of effort.

“I feel awful,” she sighs, following him out into the kitchen. “I ruined our big date night by being a hormonal mess.”

He shrugs, reaching for his phone. “You think I care? I’m fine with staying in. What’re you cravin’?”

“Thai,” she answers, then takes a seat at one of the stools at the counter with another sigh. “But Frank, that could’ve been our last date night _ever_. I mean, once the baby’s born, date night’s just gonna be us sitting on the couch watching Netflix together.”

He chuckles and abandons his phone, lending her his full attention. “Who says that’s so bad?”

“It’s not, I guess. But having a baby just seems like a… permanent death sentence for fun.”

“So we’ll have different kinds of fun,” he says, coming to a stop next to Laurel, urging her to stand, and placing his hands on her hips. “Like diapers. Diapers are a total _blast_.”

That gets a half-assed, obviously forced laugh out of her. Not satisfied with that, Frank takes her hand, grins, and steps out into the large open space between the kitchenette and the living room.

“C’mon. I know something that’ll cheer you up.”

She looks apprehensive. “…What?”

Frank doesn’t answer. He just reaches for his phone, locates his little Bluetooth speaker, searches for the song he’s looking for, and hits play, letting the first few chipper notes of Paul Anka’s “(You’re) Having my Baby” speak for him.

Laurel’s mouth drops open, and she gives a sort of half-laugh, half-scoff when he strides over, takes her hand, and places a hand on the small of her back to pull her into a slow dance.

“No! No, no, no,” she chortles. “I hate this song, Frank, turn it off.”

Frank just winks at her. “Dance with me.”

Laurel tries to glare, but just laughs harder, her cheeks flushing. “I will _not_. This is the worst song ever written in the history of music.”

“Mmm,” he hums lowly. “You mean the best.”

Frank leans in closer still, so that his lips are almost brushing hers, close enough that he can feel her lips when they curve up into a smile. He can’t get as close as he’d like, since her stomach is a very effective barrier between them, but he makes do, and finally, Laurel relents, wrapping her arms around him.

“No, I mean the worst. And for the record-”

She’s interrupted by a sudden, sharp kick inside her; so hard that he can feel it from the outside.

“Oh, see?” Laurel raises her eyebrows, cocking her head to one side. “She agrees that this song sucks.”

“Or he’s trying to tell us to crank it up so he can get down, too.”

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Uh huh, sure. Whatever you say.”

They fall into silence after that, listening to the slow, cheesy-as-hell song as it plays. They kind of make an effort to dance for the first few minutes or so, but eventually Laurel gives up, buries her face into the crook of his neck, and just sways slowly instead, her arms circled around the back of his neck.

Between them, the baby kicks again, as if demanding not to be forgotten. They share a laugh at that, and Frank presses a kiss to the top of Laurel’s head, drawing her closer.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “Forever. You gotta know that.”

“Mmm,” Laurel hums contently, resting her head on his chest. “Tell me again.”

“I love you. So fucking much, Laurel.”

“Shh!” she shushes, smacking him lightly on the arm. “Keep it G-rated. She can hear you.”

Frank chuckles, but doesn’t protest, and silence settles over them for a second time, as the song ends and they continue swaying in the stillness of the night. They don’t say a word – but somehow, he has the sense that they don’t need to.

He doesn’t need words. Being here with her, like this… It’s enough. It’s everything.


	8. VIII

They never have an official baby shower.

It’s too cheesy, Laurel insists, and besides, there’s nothing she hates more than making a big deal out of things – even though having a baby _is_ , admittedly, kind of a big deal. She doesn’t want anyone to feel obligated to spend money on gifts for them anyway, she tells Frank, and it’s not like they really need anything they can’t afford. He has a pretty hefty savings account, and even if that runs dry somehow, she figures she can always swallow her pride and cash one of the thousand dollar checks her parents send on a bi-weekly basis.

So she shoots down the idea of a baby shower – but a steady stream of familiar faces start showing up at their doorstep regardless, all bearing gifts.   

Connor and Michaela are first. She sees them pretty frequently now that they’re back in school, and has even study-grouped with them once or twice. They’re… friends now, she guesses, but it still feels a little weird to act so chummy with the two of them, in a world where they’re no longer under the thumb of Annalise.

“So, let me preface this by saying,” Connor tells her, as he holds out a package with a pastel blue bow on top of it, “that we’re both broke law students, and we DIY’d it, and-”

“And before you open it,” Michaela breaks in, stepping in front of Connor, “know that it was my idea. I saw it on Pinterest.”

Laurel undoes the bow and opens the box, her mouth falling agape as she pulls out the gift.

It’s a mobile. Colorful little hot air balloons made of cloth hang from the strings, beneath puffy, cartoony white clouds which dangle above them. It’s immaculately crafted and stitched – like, just as Michaela had said, something straight off the Pinterest baby board she hadn’t been able to resist making in her spare time.

“Wow,” she breathes, breaking into a smile. “This is… beautiful. You guys made this?”

“She did most of the sewing. Oliver helped some too. Oh, and the best part?” Connor remarks. “It’s gender neutral, since you don’t know the sex yet. _That_ part was my idea.”

Laurel beams. “It’s perfect. I love it. Seriously.”

“I knew you would,” Michaela says with a grin. “Oh, and mark me down as a babysitter, by the way. I love babies.”

Connor scoffs. “Yeah, and babies don’t love you. That one time you had to watch our client’s kid, you made it cry for an hour just by looking at it.”

Laurel grins, and thanks them again earnestly, closing the door after they depart and listening to their friendly bickering echo down the hallway after them.

The mobile goes over the crib. Frank takes one look at it, raises an eyebrow in surprise when she tells him who it’s from, but ultimately gives a nod of approval. And so it stays.

Asher, of all people, is next. She doesn’t talk to him at all these days, really, but he’s too much of a lovable idiot for her to turn him away – especially when he holds out two big bags of potato chips to her with an awkward little grin.

“So, uh,” he begins. “Didn’t really know what to get you and the Frankie D-ster. I’m not really an expert in the whole baby department. But, I know you used to scarf down these chips in, like, three seconds flat. It was pretty freakin’ impressive, so I got you some more.”

Laurel hesitates, but reaches out to take them. “Um, thanks, Asher. That’s really… thoughtful of you.”

“Oh! And one more thing.” He reaches into his back pocket and withdraws a Babies R’ Us gift card. “Got you this too. I hear babies need a lot of stuff, yo.”

Intrigued, Laurel turns it over, and that’s when she sees the amount on the back.

She looks back up at Asher, eyes wide. “This is a five hundred dollar gift card. I-I can’t take this from you.”

He just shrugs, and makes one of those strange, exaggerated gestures with his hands that she can never really quite figure out the meaning of.

“Chump change. I got dolla bills, y’all.”

“Look, you didn’t have to do this-”

Asher ignores that, however, and takes a step closer to her, lowering his voice and glancing around furtively, as if trying to keep anyone else from hearing what he’s about to say.

“So you checked, right?”

Laurel frowns. “Checked… for what?”

“You know!” he hisses. “The baby. To make sure it isn’t growing a full-on furry-Frank-beard in there.”

Rolling her eyes, Laurel just thanks him again, then promptly shuts the door in his face.

The chips are gone within the hour. Sue her; she’s a slave to her cravings, and she has to hand it to Asher: they _do_ hit the spot. The gift card gets spent on baby clothes and furniture. It’s useful, and she adds Asher’s name to the list of people she has to write thank-you cards for; a list which grows longer still the next day, with the arrivals of Bonnie and Annalise.

She hasn’t seen either of them since leaving the firm in May, and needless to say, it takes her aback when Frank calls her to the door, and she finds the two women standing there side by side.

“Um, hi, Bonnie.” she greets, feeling, admittedly, more than a little strange to see them here. “Professor Keating.”

Annalise gives her the most nonthreatening look she’s ever seen; something that, on anyone else, almost might have been the tiniest of smiles.

“You aren’t my student anymore, Laurel. Call me Annalise.”

Laurel relaxes somewhat at that. Beside her, Frank nods at a package in his hands.

“They got us one of those baby backpack things you were talkin’ about, so we can lug the kid around hands-free.”

“And this, too,” Bonnie pipes up, glancing behind them on the ground, where a large box rests. “We’ll help you bring it in.”

They do just that, hauling it into the nursery, where they finally open the box and find a bouncer inside: cream-colored, plush, expensive-looking, and as soft as anything as Laurel has ever felt before in her life.

She thanks them, insisting – of course – that they shouldn’t have. After a minute, Frank disappears with Bonnie to fetch something from the next room, leaving her alone in the nursery with Annalise; a situation that she can’t pretend isn’t awkward, especially after the woman had made it abundantly clear earlier on that she didn’t approve of their relationship. And Frank had told her she wasn’t angry about the whole paternity leave thing, sure, but Laurel still kind of doubts that.

“So,” Annalise pipes up, atypically friendly. “How’re you feeling?”

“Honestly?” Laurel sighs. “Awful. I know they say being pregnant is supposed to be beautiful, but all I am anymore is tired. And hungry.”

The other woman looks amused. “That sounds about right.”

“Thanks again,” Laurel tells her, glancing down at the bouncer, now laid out in the middle of the room. “For this. You really didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did. Frank is family, and like it or not, that makes you family too.” Annalise pauses, then glances out the doorway where Frank and Bonnie stand, chatting away about something. “Never thought I’d live to see the day he settled down, and look at him now. Cleaning the house, setting up the nursery. He’s practically nesting.”

Laurel laughs, still a little tense around her out of instinct. “Yeah, we both are.”

“Look,” Annalise says suddenly. “I’m not mad about him taking time off, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m proud of him. And you.”

 _Her_?

Laurel blinks. “Me?”

“You’re still in school. Way too many bright girls get pregnant and drop out to become housewives. And they try to tell themselves that it doesn’t bother them, that being with the baby is what they truly want, and that they’re happy… but they always wonder what could’ve been. While they’re taking care of the kids, and doing the laundry, and cooking dinner for their breadwinner husband, they wonder what kind of career they could’ve had. The difference they could have made.”

Again, she pauses, looking Laurel up and down. “I’m glad you didn’t do that. It would’ve been a terrible waste of potential.”

Stunned into silence, Laurel can do nothing but muster up a weak half-smile. In all honesty, part of her is starting to wonder if this is real, or if it’s just some crazy, pregnancy-induced fever dream – because holy hell, Annalise Keating is actually being… _nice_ to her.

“You may not work for me anymore,” the older woman continues, drawing her from her thoughts, “but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten all the hard work you did. If you ever need a reference, you have my number. Trust me, I can be _very_ persuasive.”

For a moment, Laurel’s mouth moves without articulating any words, before she finally settles on blurting out, “Um, thank you. I don’t know what to say, just… Thank you.”

“Frank loves you,” Annalise tells her. “I see it in his eyes. And you love him, and you make each other happy – and although ninety percent of the world thinks, probably justifiably, that I have a frozen heart incapable of comprehending love, I’m happy for you two.”

Laurel is about to open her mouth when all at once Annalise takes a step closer to her, lowering her voice.

“All I ask,” she begins, startlingly seriously, “is that when it comes time to choose the baby’s godmother… you take into account everything I’ve said to you today.”

And with that Annalise Keating smiles at her – actually honest-to-God _smiles_ – and gathers her purse, departing.

Wes shows up two days later, an unwrapped, plain cardboard box in hand. She’s glad to see him; he’d always been the one she had been closest with while working for Annalise, and the insanity of that, coupled with their shared introversion, had bonded them for good, though she’s been too busy to hang out with much of anyone these days, including Wes.

“Hey,” she greets with a smile, moving in for a brief hug. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Hey. Good to see you too,” he says in return, then raises his eyebrows as he moves away, his eyes dropping to her stomach. “Wow. You look…”

“Enormous?” Laurel supplies.

He shrugs. “You said it, not me.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” she says with a sigh, placing a hand on the gargantuan bulge out of habit. “It sucks. My back hurts all the time, and I can hardly even move, and I’m peeing, like, constantly.” Laurel remembers herself just then, and shakes her head. “And that… was probably _way_ more than you ever wanted to know.”

“The miracle of life, huh?” Wes says, not looking grossed-out in the slightest, and holds out the box to her. “Here. I got you something.”

She takes it, easing open the lid slowly. “Wes, seriously, you shouldn’t have. It’s not like we need anyth-”

As soon as she sees what’s inside, however, she falls silent. It’s a little brown teddy bear in denim overalls; worn, old, and missing an eye. Clearly it’d been well-loved, and Laurel glances up at Wes as soon as she sees it, brow furrowed.

“What is this?”

“It was mine when I was little,” he explains. “My mom gave it to me, and I always loved it. Slept with it every night. I don’t have a ton of stuff left from when I was a kid, but I still have that. And I know it’s ratty and old, and you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to. I was gonna get you guys a real present, but I’m kinda having trouble making rent this month, so…”

He drifts off, and Laurel shakes her head, a lump growing in her throat. “Wes, there’s no way I can accept this, i-if it meant so much to you-”

“That’s why I want you to have it. It meant a lot to me. Maybe it can mean something to your baby, too.”

At that, Laurel melts, and tears come to her eyes. She reaches her arms out and draws him into a hug, murmuring into his shoulder, “It will. Thank you so much.”

“Hey, don’t cry,” he soothes. “I wasn’t trying to make you cry.”

“Well you did anyway!” she laughs, then sniffles, drawing back and wiping her cheeks. “You should’ve thought about that before you went and gave me something so thoughtful!”

They laugh at that, and Laurel sobers up after a moment, growing serious.

“Will you be the baby’s godfather?” she asks suddenly. “I know it’s out of the blue, but…”

“Really?”

She nods, turning over the teddy bear in her hands. “Frank has all these cousins and uncles and friends of the family parading around trying to convince us to pick them, but… None of them have really felt right. So will you?”

“Of course!” he exclaims, pulling her into another giant hug. “Of course. I’d love to.”

The teddy bear goes in the crib where it belongs, of course. Laurel places it there with a smile.

 

\--

 

The gifts don’t stop there.

Almost daily, some relative of Frank’s shows up at the door with a present, and his mother is over at least twice a week, fawning over Laurel, helping them set up whatever they need, and refusing to leave until Frank all but forces her out. Packages come in the mail from Laurel’s family every other day, too – from her siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles. Her parents sure had gleefully spread the word, and the gifts pour in from Texas, Iowa, Michigan, California, even some from as far away as Mexico City.

She’s only just started sorting through the pile of yesterday’s packages in the nursery when Frank bursts through the door, his arms, unsurprisingly, filled with more.

“Look what showed up today,” he remarks, setting them down on the dresser where she’s piled the rest. “Think the mailman might be startin’ to suspect we’re running a mail-order scam out of our apartment.”

Laurel just sighs. “This is getting ridiculous. We have to tell people to stop getting us stuff.”

He shrugs, pulling out a pair of scissors to slice open one of the packages. “It got ridiculous a week ago. Now it’s just excessive.”

“Oh, look,” she says suddenly, holding up a blue box. “A second breast pump. We could use a backup.”

He knits his eyebrows together. “Why do we need one?”

“Because, if I’m breastfeeding and going to school all day, and you’re at home with the baby, she’s still going to need to eat. Believe it or not, these,” she says, motioning to her breasts, “are not getting bigger just for your enjoyment. They have a biological function.”

“Damn,” he murmurs, taking a step closer to her. “It’s hot when you talk medical to me.”

She scoffs. “I’m not in the mood. Now get back over there and help me open these.”

Frank obeys, albeit reluctantly, just in time for Laurel to hold up another present.

“Hey, look at this. They’re booties that look like little tacos. From my aunt in San Francisco.”

“What’s next? We swaddle the kid in a tortilla?”

“I want our baby to be in touch with her cultural heritage. Maybe taco booties are a bit… much, but my family’s pretty much as Hispanic as it gets, and yours is Italian to the bone. I’m definitely going to teach her Spanish. Your parents will probably end up teaching her Italian. She’ll be trilingual.”

His lips perk up into a smile at that. “Yeah. I guess she will.”

“She?” Laurel freezes, setting the box in her hands back down. “Did you just-”

“He,” Frank corrects himself. “I meant to say he.”

Laurel strides over, looping her arms around the back of his neck, triumphant. “No, no, you said _she_. Admit it.”

“Yeah, all right, fine,” he concedes. “Only ‘cause you say it all the time. Maybe it’s kinda been growing on me.”

Laurel beams, standing on her tiptoes to peck him on the lips, before moving away, looking at the veritable mountain of presents, and sighing in defeat.

“Can you open the rest?” she asks with a pout, making her way over to the rocker near the door and plopping down in it. “My back is killing me.”

He nods and sets about doing just that, while Laurel reaches for a pad of paper on the nightstand beside the rocker.

“There’s still some things we need to figure out, you know,” she tells him. “I made a list.”

He turns back slightly to look at her, ripping open another box. “Yeah? Shoot.”

“All right, first off: if it’s a boy, circumcised or uncircumcised?”

“Circumcised. We’re not cavemen.”

“Some parents choose not to do it,” she says with a shrug. “It’s supposed to make it more… sensitive.”

“Trust me, I was circumcised and my dick is plenty sensitive. Next question.”

She rolls her eyes, but keeps going. “Okay, um… Baptized or no?”             

“Depends. What religion?”

“Well, I mean I was raised Catholic. Weren’t you? Your whole family’s Italian.”

“Yeah,” he tells her with a shrug. “But I stopped believin’ when they told me premarital sex wasn’t kosher.”

“Of course you did.” Laurel shakes her head, and ticks that off the list. “How about we just let the baby decide? Instead of forcing religion down her throat?”

“Fine by me.”

She sits up slightly, rubbing her back. “Okay, so next on the checklist is my birth plan. I think I’m gonna go without the epidural.”

Frank stops what he’s doing right then. “You sure?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Dunno.” He sets down his scissors and walks over, kneeling next to where she sits. “But childbirth is supposed to hurt worse than getting kicked in the balls, and I can tell you firsthand that getting kicked in the balls really fucking hurts.”

“Well, I don’t want to drug our baby. I want to do everything as natural as possible. So no drugs – and definitely no processed, manufactured baby formulas.”

He takes her hand, pressing a kiss to it and teasing, “Whatever you want. Just make sure you only break one of my hands in the delivery room.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

“What’s next?” he asks, glancing over at her list.

“Oh, that’s pretty much it,” she tells him, pulling out another piece of paper. “Although, I _was_ working on this earlier, but I didn’t get very far.”

She pulls out a piece of paper with only two or three lines written on it, and holds it up.

“What’s that?”

“I was trying to write a letter to her, for her to read when she’s older. Or, I don’t know, for us to have, I guess. I got stuck, though.”

“’Dear our baby boy/girl’,” he reads aloud, amused. “’It’s November 2nd, 2015, and I’m nine months pregnant with you. Barack Obama is president.’ Wow. That’s a real literary masterpiece.”

She glares at him, snatching it out of his hands. “I got writer’s block. You know what? I’ll just throw it away.”

“No. Don’t. Let’s finish it.”

Laurel raises an eyebrow, picking up her pen. “And say what? I-I don’t know how to start.”

“Well, what about how you’re sure it’s a girl, and I know it’s a boy? Tell him how we’re waiting on him to come out and prove you wrong.”

“Fine, but instead I’m writing how we’re waiting on _her_ to prove _you_ wrong.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. But tell him how excited we are to meet him. And how sometimes his dad can’t sleep because he’s so psyched about it.”

Laurel glances over at him, a look of surprise on her face. “Really?”

“You know it. Oh, and say I hope he gets my beard gene, too.”

“Yeah, okay, but we have to consider both genders in this.”

“Fine. Then say that if it’s a girl, I hope she’ll have her mom’s beautiful eyes. And her mom’s smile. And her mom’s everything.”

“Now you're just sucking up.”

Blushing at that, Laurel writes for a minute, then pauses, resting her head back against the rocker with a happy sigh and reading over her work so far.

“I’ll tell her how much we love her, already,” she continues. “And I know we haven’t even met her, but I just… do. So much.”

“You have any idea how much love our kid’ll have in his life? Between you and me, and my family, and yours… Annalise, Bon… the rest of your weird little study group.” He pauses. “He’s gonna be so loved he’s not even gonna know what to do with himself.”

She smiles back, then looks down and continues to write. “This is so easy for you. You’re much more poetic than I am.”

“Nah,” he admits. “I’m just happy. And I want everyone to know it. Tell him that, too. Tell him how lucky we are to be his parents.”

They brainstorm for a while longer, and after finishing the letter and re-reading it until she’s satisfied, Laurel gets to her feet, reaching for her phone.

“Here,” she tells Frank, holding it out to him. “Take a picture of me. I want to put one in with the letter.”

She walks over into the middle of the room and turns to the side, framing her almost obscenely huge stomach with her hands and smiling – even though her feet hurt, and her back hurts, and almost every single part of her _hurts_. He snaps a few, then hands her the phone, and she scrolls through them with a sigh.

“Oh my God,” she murmurs. “I look like a whale.”

“A really freakin’ cute whale,” he corrects her, and she scoffs.

“Thanks.”

“C’mon. Let’s get one together, in the mirror.”

Laurel knits her eyebrows together, but follows him over to the full-length one in the corner regardless. “What, are you seriously proposing we include a mirror selfie in this letter? That’s so tacky.”

“Tacky’s my middle name. Now you in or not?”

Laurel hesitates, but eventually plods over, stands in front of the mirror, and turns to the side. Frank takes his place behind her, setting his hands on her stomach from behind, drawing her back against him, and burying his face in her hair. Laurel can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it, and pulls back after taking a few photos, holding the phone out so they can both see them.

The smile falls from Laurel’s face, however, when she starts to look through the pictures. In all of them, she has a huge, bright smile on her face, and Frank’s face is nestled in her hair, his large hands on her belly, cradling them both, his eyes closed. It makes her heart melt, the sight of him holding her like that, with so much tenderness, and she leans back against him, grinning like an idiot.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says after a moment. “That was tacky as hell.”

“No,” she replies, shaking her head. “It’s sweet.”

So the picture gets printed out sealed in an envelope with the letter, which they both sign and label ‘To Open: Whenever.’

“We’re becoming dorky parents, y’know,” he remarks, as he licks the envelope and closes it. “This is exactly the kinda stuff dorky parents do.”

Laurel just laughs, freely and deep in her chest, and wraps her arms around him from behind.

“Good. We might as well get a head start on it now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter! I haven't really been getting a ton of comments recently, so I'd love to hear what you guys think! Feedback is always super validating as a writer; it tells me I'm doing a good job ;P


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're at the end! I've had a blast writing this fic, and I'm so grateful for everyone who has read and enjoyed. If you can, take a second and tell me what you think! I love hearing from you all; it means a lot. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

“Stop fucking _petting_ me, Frank, I’m not a damn cat!”

Frank had never thought it was possible to be legitimately afraid of Laurel. She’s yelled at him a lot during the last nine months, sure, but never for very long, and even then it was never about anything serious. Her hormones would flare up, and she would get angry, yell, start to feel guilty, and then apologize, in that order. Plus, she had never sounded like she actually _meant_ any of the threats she’d made – to him, his life, or his balls.

But Laurel in labor… Laurel in labor is a different story.  

She’d been fine, early on. Her water had broken at home, and he’d freaked out, but for the most part she’d stayed calm, even comforting _him_ a few times. They’d waited a while to go to the hospital as per the advice of the nurse on the phone, and even a few hours after they’d gotten settled into their suite here at the hospital, she still hadn’t seemed to be in all that much pain. They’d just talked like normal, and watched part of a movie until around 3 AM. He’d even managed to get a few laughs out of her.

Then, the contractions had started to get worse. And _that_ had been precisely when the laughter had stopped, and the threats had started.

Halfway through the particularly long and miserable contraction, she lapses into angry Spanish – which, honestly, is way more terrifying than it would’ve been had she just cussed him out in English. It makes his head spin, and at the end of her tirade, when he reaches out to comfort her again and she smacks him away, all he’s capable of catching is: “¡ _Aléjate de mí, pendejo_!”

Laurel stops, her eyes burning into his, almost as if expecting him to do something. Frank, however, has no clue what she wants; he doesn’t speak a word of Spanish beyond ‘hola’ and ‘como estas’, and so he just stands there dumbly for a moment, too scared to move, before finally daring to open his mouth.

“… Huh?”

“Just get _out_!” she screeches through her teeth, then moans. He hesitates, instinctively reaching out to comfort her, but she raises her voice. “Get away from me!”

Not about to disobey her, Frank books it, making for the door and taking refuge in the blessedly-silent hallway. He considers going back in, but thinks better of it and decides it’s probably be best just to leave Laurel alone for the time being, lest he get his head bitten off. So he wanders around the hallways aimlessly for a while, texting Bonnie and Annalise to update them, before getting a little cup of ice chips for Laurel and heading back to the maternity ward. 

He eases the door to their room open slowly, not exactly sure which Laurel he’ll encounter upon entering. When he steps inside, he finds her lying on her side, clad in her blue hospital gown, features screwed up in pain, with strands of sweaty hair plastered to her forehead. It kills him to see her like that, and he closes the door softly behind him with a frown, unsure if he should approach or keep his distance.

Laurel looks up as soon as she hears the door shut, but surprisingly enough doesn’t yell. Instead, her voice is quiet, sad, almost defeated.

“Where the hell were you?”

He ventures a bit closer, brow furrowed. “You told me to get out.”

“Well it’s not like I _meant_ it,” she mutters, bloodthirsty-Laurel disappearing and being replaced with normal-Laurel. “I missed you.”

His eyes soften, and he bends down to kiss her sweaty forehead, taking a seat in the chair next to her bed.

“I won’t leave again. Promise.” He hands her the cup. “Here. Got you ice chips.”

Confused, she sits up and peers down into the cup. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

“Eat ‘em.” He shrugs. “That’s what they always do in movies.”

She pops one into her mouth and crunches it idly for a moment, relaxing back against the bed.

“I didn’t mean any of what I said, either. That was really mean.”

“It’s all good. I didn’t understand any of it anyway.”

That gets a half-hearted chuckle out of her, and she sighs, turning onto her side to face him.

“Did you call your parents yet?”

“Nah. The last thing we need is fifty Delfino’s barging into the delivery room. I’ll wait ‘til after. What about yours? Doc said it’s not gonna be that long now. Maybe we should give them a call so they can fly up.”

“No,” she shoots the idea down. “I don’t want them here until… until they have to – oh, _fuck_.”

Another contraction interrupts her, and she groans, setting down the cup, curling up into a ball away from him, and burying her face into the pillow. Immediately, he reaches over to rub her back, murmuring comforting words and doing his best to console her, when really he’s all too aware that there’s nothing he can do to help.

“Oh _God_ , this hurts,” she bites out through the pain. “Why did I say no drugs? Why the _hell_ did I say no drugs?”

“I think… there’s still time, if you wanna get the epidural-”

She actually growls at that; a low, guttural, bone-chilling sound. “I don’t want the epidural! How many times have I told you that? I-I’m not… pumping our baby full of chemicals before it’s even born!”

“All right, all right. I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “Who needs an epidural anyway? You’re doin’ good. Last the doc checked you were – what? Eight centimeters? Only two more, and then we’ll have our kid, and it’ll all be over.”

Frank braces himself for the inevitable screaming and moaning and swearing, and after it passes and the contraction begins to subside, Laurel rolls over to face him, grinding her teeth.

“This never would’ve happened if you’d just worn a goddamn condom once in a while!” she accuses. “You know what? I’m going out, a-and I’m buying you a deluxe, Costco-sized box of condoms. Or – no, I’m just… never having sex with you again. Ever. A-as soon as this is over, I’m-”

“I know, I know,” he soothes. “As soon as you’re out of that bed, you’re gonna castrate me so I can never do this to you again. I got it.”

“I was gonna say kick you in the balls until you cry,” she says, as her breathing slows, “but that works too.”

The pain passes, and she relaxes again, closing her eyes and taking a series of deep, calming breaths. Frank finds a damp cloth and dabs at the beads of sweat forming on her face and neck, talking to her about anything he can think of; something, anything to distract her. It seems to be working for a minute – that is, until the machine monitoring her contractions spikes again, and she cries out, bolting upright with a look on her face that he doesn’t recognize.

He leans in closer to her, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“I-” she chokes out. “I-I feel like… I need to push, get the doctor!”

Frank just stares at her, frozen with panic. “Wait – for real?”

“No, I’m kidding. Jesus, how stupid are you?” she cries. “Do you think I would make a jo – oh God, go! _Go_!”

He’s out the door in less than two seconds, darting down the hallway and rounding the corner – where, thank God, he finds their stand-in doctor: a skinny, balding middle-aged man with glasses, as their regular doctor had gone to visit family this weekend. He’s immersed in conversation with a nurse, but Frank doesn’t have any time to lose; he just grabs the puny man by the sleeve of his lab coat and all but drags him back to their room, giving him only a short, frenzied explanation along the lines of “she says she needs to push, like right now, and you’re coming with me.”

“This is _assault_!” the man protests, as Frank strongarms him into their room and closes the door. “This is assault, sir, and I won’t stand for i-”

Frank ignores him, and hurries back over to Laurel, who has arranged her feet in the stirrups, screaming and growling and making all sorts of inhuman-sounding noises that scare the crap out of him.

“Frank, what the hell?” she pants, as he takes his place by her side again and laces his fingers through hers. “You… you assaulted him?”

“He most certainly did!” the indignant little man huffs, brushing off his arms and walking over to take a seat on the stool at the end of the bed. “You know, I have half a mind to file a-”

“Shut up!” Laurel groans. “I don’t care, need to…push, need to push-”

The doctor glowers at Frank one last time, then turns his full attention to Laurel, examines her for a moment, before flattening his lips into a line and nodding.

“Well, you’re right. You’re fully dialated. This baby is coming, and it’s coming now. What was your name again, ma’am?”

“Laurel!” she exclaims, her eyes burning with fury that, for once, Frank is really glad isn’t directed at him. “My name is _Laurel_ – how the fuck do you not know?”

“My apologies,” he says, in a low, resigned voice that makes it apparent he’s used to being screamed at in situations like this. “All right, Laurel, I want you to push through your next contraction when it comes. Can you do that for me?”

But Laurel just lets out a broken sob, shaking her head. “I-it’s… No, I can’t – I can’t… Why didn’t I just get the epidural? I can’t… _do_ this, I don’t know why I ever thought I could-”

“Hey,” he cuts her off gently, looking her in the eyes. “’Course you can. Remember what I said? You’re the strongest person I know.”

“No, I’m not-”

“Yeah, you are. You’re doing so good, okay? If you can’t do this, nobody can. And I love you, and I’m here, and I’m not leavin’ again.” He kisses her hand, giving her a reassuring grin. “I swear.”

That seems to calm her down a bit, and she gulps, managing a scared smile back. “Permission to break your hand?”

“’Course,” he says with a wink, clasping her hand in his tightly and giving it a squeeze. “You got it.”

And holy _hell_ does she take full advantage of that.

The contraction hits her not long after, and she arches forward, grits her teeth, makes a downright terrifying sound that’s half-moan, half-scream, half-roar, and bears down with all her might, her hand clamping down so hard on his that it starts to turn a gruesome shade of purple that definitely does not look healthy. She repeats this process at least half a dozen times, until she’s going hoarse and her face is sweat-soaked and beet-red, and all he’s really able to do is stand there, try to coach her, and remind her to do her breathing – to which she just replies every time with a furious roar of “the breathing isn’t doing shit!”

“You’re doing so good,” he reminds her during one particularly relentless contraction, pushing the strands of sweaty hair out of her face. He sounds like a broken record, yeah, but he doesn’t know what else to say, and so he just repeats, “So good. You’re killing it, seriously-”

“If you don’t shut up,” she all but spits the words at him, “I’m going to kill _you_ – oh God, fuck, I can feel it-“

“The baby’s crowning,” the doctor announces happily – probably because it means he’ll be able to leave this nightmarish delivery room of horrors soon. “I can see the head.”

Frank doesn’t know, exactly, what compels him to look. Fatherly pride, maybe, or just morbid curiosity. Some misplaced desire to fully experience the joyous miracle of life. But the moment he glances down between Laurel’s legs, he really fucking regrets it, and pulls back immediately, cringing – because holy shit, describing _that_ as brutal would be putting it way too lightly.

“Jesus,” he remarks with a grimace. “That looks rough.”

Laurel makes a sound somewhere between a cackle and a growl. “Yeah, well, imagine how rough it _feels_!”

She looks fully prepared to tear Frank to shreds, but fortunately for him, a contraction cuts her off before she can, and she’s forced to focus her energy on pushing instead of screaming at him. Laurel takes it out on his hand instead, and he clenches his jaw at her almost superhumanly-powerful grip, trying not to make a sound, even though it hurts like hell.

She’s pushing a person out of her body without any painkillers, though, so Frank’s pretty sure he doesn’t get to complain right now. Or ever again.

“The head’s out,” the doctor pipes up, pulling him from his reverie. “Head’s out, and… there you go, you’ve passed the shoulders. Now just one more big push, and-”

Laurel’s interrupts him with another screech of effort, lurching forward and pushing, her eyes fixed ahead with a look of steely determination. She all but rips his hand off in the process, as if on a quest to hurt him as bad as she’s currently hurting. She squeezes, and screams, and sobs, and moans, and it’s such an overwhelming cacophony of pained noises that it makes his head spin, and-

And then, all at once, the noise dies down.

Laurel falls back against the bed, exhausted, breathing heavily, but triumphant. For a moment, that’s all he can hear: her heavy breathing as she fights to fill her lungs.

That’s all Frank can hear, for a moment. Then, piercing and shrill, the sound of a baby’s cry joins it.

He freezes. He doesn’t move; he can’t move. The sound terrifies him, and at the same time it fills him with such an inexplicable feeling of… _love_. Love, hitting him like a freight train, right in the gut. Paralyzing him.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor tells them, his features relaxing into an easy smile. “A healthy baby girl.”

Next to him, Laurel gives a watery laugh, smacking him on the arm weakly. “A girl. A girl – see, I told you!”

“Yeah,” he mutters, watching intently as the doctor wraps the baby loosely in a soft blue piece of fabric, passes her into Laurel’s trembling arms, then makes his way across the room to give them a bit of privacy. Numbly, he sinks down beside her on the bed, his tongue feeling cold and clumsy in his mouth. “I… shoulda listened to you, huh?”

Everything else around him is a blur; the baby is the only thing he can see clearly, the only thing that matters in the world, now. Red-faced and squalling, with a head of dark hair and the bluest eyes he’s ever seen in his life. And tiny – so, so tiny. So tiny that he can hardly even believe she’s real.

She. _She_. Frank loves the sound of that so much he could cry – _she_. A daughter. His daughter. Their daughter.

The sound of Laurel’s happy sobs bring him back to reality, and she looks over at him with tear-filled eyes, her shoulders quivering.  

“Frank… Frank, look at her. Just… _look_.” She softens her voice, adjusting it to a high-pitched, gentle tone, mostly drowned out by the baby’s cries. “Hi, baby girl. You know who I am? Do you? I’m your mama. That’s right – and you know who that is over there? That’s your daddy. You still have to meet him, don’t you?”

Laurel sits up and angles herself towards him. “Here. H-here, hold her.”

Frank blanches, inexplicably. He doesn’t know why, because he’s never been happier, but all at once he’s aware of how _big_ he is, and just how _tiny_ a creature she is, how delicate, as if he could break her just by holding her. The fear catches him off guard. He’s not a gentle man, and he knows that, and there’s no way he can be as gentle as she needs him to be.

“I…” his voice catches in his throat, and he pauses, meeting Laurel’s eyes. “I don’t wanna hurt her.”

Laurel laughs and sniffles. “You won’t. Just make sure you have her head.”

It takes a moment, and a very, very careful transfer from Laurel’s arms to his own, but after a minute the baby is nestled in his arms, as light as a feather, almost enveloped completely by his hands, which look gigantic in comparison to her. She stops crying as soon as she sees him, her tiny mouth falling shut as her eyes appraise him in silence, her little arms waving about in the air.

It feels surreal, like the most beautiful dream. Like every terrible thing he’s ever done suddenly doesn’t matter anymore; like she’s taken away his sin, made him a better man. He can’t describe how it feels, exactly, to hold a tiny piece of him and Laurel in his arms. All he knows is that he’d never thought it was possible to fall in love so hard so fast, and so completely.

He gets it, now. Gets why everyone calls it a miracle.

“Hey,” he finally opens his mouth to speak, his voice low and unsteady. “You know me? I’m your dad. Y’know, the one who was always talkin’ to you in there? Sorry I kept calling you ‘he,’ by the way. I shoulda known your mom is always right. What do I know anyway? I’m just your dumb ole daddy.”

Beside him, Laurel sighs happily, resting her head on his shoulder. “I did it. I did it – a-and I didn’t even break your hand.”

He grins. “You came pretty close, though.”

“Sorry.”

“Nah. It’ll be fine,” he remarks, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

He shrugs, shifting the baby in his arms. “For everything. Carrying her around. Going through all the pain. Giving us… her.”

“Yeah, well,” she laughs softly. “You owe me big time.”

He moves closer to Laurel, so that her head is almost tucked underneath his chin. “You have any idea how much I love you right now?”

She hums softly. “I think I have a pretty good idea. But feel free to tell me anyway.”

“So much. So much you don’t even know.” He kisses her again, then looks back at the baby, who is taking in the new world with wide, wondrous eyes. “Jesus, Laurel, she’s… beautiful.”

“Mmm hmm,” Laurel agrees, her eyelids drooping. “And she was worth it. She was so, so worth it.”

They lapse into silence for a moment, the three of them all taking in the sight of each other with amazement, like they’ll never be able to look away. Frank doesn’t think he can. He just wants to look at her forever. She’s beautiful, so beautiful that he’s sure he doesn’t deserve her. Beautiful, beautiful, and every single synonym of the word.

It comes to him, then. Her name – out of thin air. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he just… does, somehow. It feels as though he’s known all his life, and all it took was seeing her for the first time.

“Bella,” he says suddenly, making Laurel stir at his side.

“Huh?”

“That’s her name,” Frank tells her, with absolute certainty. “It’s Italian. Means-”

“Beautiful,” she finishes for him. “I know. It’s Spanish, too.” Laurel pauses, her eyes brimming with tears. “That’s perfect.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, soft and sure. “It is.”

 

\--

 

An hour or so later, after Laurel and Bella have had the chance to clean up a bit, they open the floodgates to visitors.

Surprisingly enough, Annalise is the first to step inside – even before the inevitable horde of baby-crazy Delfino family members. She’s the first person besides the two of them to hold her, and smiles when Laurel passes her over; a smile so big that it renders her almost unrecognizable. It creeps Frank out a little, if he’s being perfectly honest. He should take a picture; Bonnie will never believe him.

“Oh, she _is_ gorgeous,” Annalise says, while Bella, clad in a little knitted cap, peers up at her reverently, as if sensing just who she is in the presence of. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

“Yeah, well, we picked out a middle name too,” Frank mentions, from his spot on the bed next to Laurel. “Think you might like it.”

Annalise pauses, narrowing her eyes but continuing to smile and rock the baby. “Frank, I swear, there never was a bigger kiss-ass in the world.”

“I liked how it sounded,” Laurel pipes up with a yawn. “Bella Annalise. It flows.”

“I take it this means you’ve also settled on a godmother, too?” Annalise asks, eyebrows raised in pseudo-seriousness. 

Frank rolls his eyes. “You even have to ask? Who else would I pick?”

“You’ve made the right choice,” she tells them, then turns her attention to Bella and using a soft, air baby-voice. “Haven’t they? Yes, mommy and daddy have. Yes indeed.”

Frank’s family, led by his mother and father, barge in next, almost filling the entire suite, much to the chagrin of the nurses. Bella gets passed around from person to person, followed by a chorus of constant “ _Oh my Gawd’s_.” His father gives him a look of pride and claps him on the back, and his mother breaks down in tears when she holds the baby, declaring her “the most beautiful grandbaby I’ll ever have. The most beautiful baby _ever_.”

Although he can tell she’s exhausted, Laurel gets about a hundred hugs from everyone, welcoming her to the family and commending her for putting up with him. Thankfully, most of his extended family filter out after a short while, leaving only his mother and father behind, as well as practically drowning the room in congratulatory balloons.

Bonnie makes an appearance a few hours later, holding Bella with a tearful smile and declaring that she makes her want to have a baby of her own. Prom Queen and Hair Gel, accompanied by the Puppy and Hair Gel’s boyfriend, show up next – and although Frank can’t stand most of them, he tolerates their presence for Laurel’s sake, who, inexplicably, seems to be friends with them.

They pass the baby around, chatting happily, until she reaches Prom Queen’s arms and promptly bursts into loud, noisy tears.

“Wh-what’d I do?” she asks, bewildered, as Hair Gel’s boo – Oliver, Frank thinks is his name – snatches her out of her arms. “That doesn’t make any sense; babies love me.”

Hair Gel snickers. “Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that.”

“Here, I got this,” Oliver tells them, rocking Bella back and forth and humming quietly – until, miraculously, she falls silent. Everyone stares at him in shock, and he shrugs. “What? I’m kind of a… baby whisperer.”

After a few more minutes, they depart, and their departure is heralded by the arrival of a group of people even _less_ tolerable: Laurel’s family.

Or – it’s just her parents, actually. He’d met them a few months back, when he’d flown with Laurel down to Florida, and they’d been exactly like he’d imagined: rich, snooty, classist as hell. He’s pretty sure the only reason they’d even _pretended_ to like him was because he’d gotten Laurel pregnant and, in their eyes, pushed her one step closer to becoming a housewife.

They’d flown up from Palm Beach on their private jet after getting the call, and as soon as they step inside, Laurel’s mother turns up her nose at the sight of the room before even looking at the baby, while Mr. Castillo lurks behind her, a tall, imposing figure in a trench coat.

“Laurel, honey, couldn’t they have found you any better accommodations?”

Laurel exhales sharply, but puts on a well-rehearsed smile. “I thought this room was fine. But… Mom, dad, meet Bella. Your granddaughter.”

“Oh my goodness…” Her mother melts at the sight, reaching out and taking the baby into her arms, her icy exterior giving way just the tiniest bit. “Oh, Laurel, she’s beautiful. She looks so much like you. Victor, Victor, look at her. See, honey? I knew one day you would want to give us a grandchild. Now you won’t have to deal with all that stressful law school business anymore.”

“Actually,” Laurel speaks up, apparently fearless in her exhaustion. “I’m staying in school. Frank is taking some time off work to be at home with her.”

Her father gives Frank a look of disbelief. “Is he? That’s not what a man does, _mija_.”

“Yeah, well,” Frank counters. “It’s what I’m doing. ‘Sides, Laurel’s smarter than I’ll ever be. She’ll be the breadwinner.”

Her father seethes at that, but seethes silently, and Laurel grins, thrilled to see his barely-concealed fury. Her mother plasters on a simpering smile, unable to keep the disappointment off her Botox-laden features either.

“Well, that’s just lovely. _So_ lovely. Victor, darling, I’ve got to use the restroom. Will you help me find it?”

With that, her parents hand Bella back and disappear, leaving behind an almost palpable sense of disapproval in the air, along with her mother’s suffocating vanilla perfume. They return some time later, just in time to run into Frank’s parents, who are helping them organize and sort through the myriad of gifts sent to their room.

Needless to say, the first meeting between the Castillo and Delfino families is… awkward.

His mom envelops hers immediately in a huge hug, which throws Mrs. Castillo for a loop, as she’d looked reluctant to even shake hands with the woman. His father shakes her father’s hand vigorously, bellowing a greeting to the man and not at all regarding him with the fear Frank figures the other man is used to. He claps him on the back too, so hard that Mr. Castillo jumps.

They get along on the surface, though Frank overhears Mrs. Castillo murmur something to her husband about how “don’t get me wrong, they’re lovely people, but they’re just so… _loud_.” After a few hours, however, they warm to each other, with their mothers bonding over baby clothes, and their fathers bonding – and arguing – over soccer.

On the bed, Frank exchanges a surprised but happy look with Laurel. He’s having a hard time believing it too, but he’s not about to say anything to spoil it. This is what family is, after all.

Family. It’s been a word he’s heard all his life. _Family is important_ or _Blood is thicker than water_ or _In the end, family is all you’ve got._ He’d thought he’d understood it, back then – but now…

Family feels like it means something different, now. Something deeper.

 

\--

 

When the sun sets a few hours later, visiting hours finally come to an end, and they’re left alone in the peaceful stillness of the room, with only each other and Bella.

Frank is sitting up next to Laurel in the bed, as she cradles the dozing baby and tries not to nod off against his shoulder, while he busies himself with filling out the information for the birth certificate. It’s been a long day, and he hasn’t had a wink of sleep in over twenty-hour hours – no, actually, make that closer to thirty. Neither has Laurel, and he’s sure Bella is exhausted too, because leaving the womb and entering the real world in the span of just a few hours doesn’t sound easy by any means.

He doesn’t want to sleep, though. He just wants to keep looking at Bella, counting her stubby fingers and toes, and looking at Laurel, and kissing her, thanking her.

Sleep can wait for now. He doesn’t want to lose even a moment of this day to sleep.

“So how’re we doing the last name?” he asks Laurel. “Castillo-Delfino or Delfino-Castillo?”

“Just Delfino,” she murmurs, so quietly that he almost doesn't hear. Frank stops writing, shocked, and she looks over at him with a sleepy grin. “I want her to have your name.”

Frank stills, caught off guard but pleasantly surprised. Then, out of nowhere, he blurts out:

“I want you to, too.”

Laurel freezes. “What?” 

“Marry me,” he urges, without a second’s hesitation – without even thinking, because he _knows_. Knows like he’d known Bella’s name; out of nowhere, in his gut.  

Her mouth drops open, and she gapes at him for a second, before shaking her head. “Frank… d-don’t do this just because of her-”

“I’m not,” Frank tells her firmly. “Or – yeah, maybe she’s part of it. But I love you. And I know I wanna be with you – forever. So what do you say we kill two birds with one stone? Solve the name problem and get to spend the rest of our lives together.”

A series of emotions cross Laurel’s face: shock, uncertainty, bewilderment. Then, finally, her lips perk up into a smile, bright and beautiful even in spite of the dark bags under her eyes.

“Well, that was kind of a half-assed proposal,” she teases. “No ring, and you didn’t even get down on one knee…”

“I’ll get you a ring. As big as you want. So is that a yes or no?”

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes,” she says quietly, glancing down at the sleeping Bella in her arms and yawning. “Mmm, and you know what? We’ve already got our own little flower girl right here.”

They share a laugh at that. It’s loud enough to rouse Bella from her slumber, and she stirs, her little eyes opening.

“She’s got blue eyes,” he observes, stroking the baby's head with one hand. “My eyes. Yours too, kinda.”

“Most newborns’ eyes are blue. They’ll probably change color.”

“Not hers,” he says with certainty, and presses a kiss to Laurel’s temple. “Hers are gonna stay blue. I got a feeling.”

A few minutes pass in silence. Bella closes her eyes and falls back asleep, and Laurel yawns again, barely able to keep her eyes open either. Taking the hint, Frank sets the clipboard with the paperwork aside and motions for her to pass the baby to him.

“Here. I’ll put her to bed.”

“No,” Laurel mutters, on the brink of drifting off. “You’ll wake her up if you move her. Let’s… stay like this.”

Frank doesn’t protest. Instead, he just nods and lies back against the bed, glancing down at Laurel’s head on his shoulder, and the sleeping infant in her arms, with so much love in his chest right then that he almost doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He wonders, briefly, how the hell he got so lucky. A few years ago, maybe he wouldn’t have considered this luck – but it is. Laurel and their child… He’s won the damn lottery with them, as far as he’s concerned. There isn’t a luckier man in the world.      

And Frank knows right then, as he watches the two of them sleep, that this is what happiness is. Simple. Silent. Not overwhelming joy; just… quiet contentment.

He knows it, then. This is happiness, this is luck, and this is home.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://laurelcasfillo.tumblr.com/)!


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